


Shot Through The Heart

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Series: Professional. Assholes. Competent. Killers [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Assassin!Derek, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Cat and Mouse, Comedy, Contract killing, Derek takes offence at being stabbed, Either works for ALPHA or ABOM-nation, Everybody is basically an assassin, F/M, Flirting, Greenberg is awesome, Knotting, M/M, Rival assassins, SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION, Slowish build, Sniper!Stiles, Stiles doesn't get how Derek is so good at this, Stiles is a BAMF who didn't want to kill the regulation hottie, Suspense, There will be werewolves eventually, Threats that are thinly veiled seduction techniques, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, loveable assholes, obscure references to mating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they've given him is the guy’s head shot. And it’s terrible because now he is ridding the world of one more ridiculously attractive, instant pants dropping- take me now, if you please- regulation hottie.</p><p>Even if he has a scowl to rival Kristen Stewart.</p><p> </p><p>Or the one when Stiles and Derek work for rival assassin companies and are sent to kill each other. It definitely doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sweetest Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow. So I read a fic the other day with Stiles as an expert marksmen and the idea of Stiles trying to kill Derek but Derek at the last second turning around an being all whut you doing human? wouldn't leave my brain :D
> 
> In this AU nobody but Stiles is from Beacon Hills (maybe Derek too I'll see how I feel about that) but basically they all met each other through the business. Of killing and such.
> 
> Anyway, Enjoy!

# The Sweetest Kill

#    


Stiles knows as soon as he steps out onto the observation deck on the 70th floor that he’s fucked. 

The wind has picked up. The sun is starting to disappear behind the Empire State building, and the casing he’s carrying around for his semi automatic sniper rifle weighs a freaking tonne.

He sort of wants to kiss the floor in gratitude that there is an elevator option for once- he probably would have died before his target if he’d taken to lugging the rifle case up 70 flights of steps. 

But even if the elevator saved him several aching muscles and manly tears of frustration- he still thinks he’s fucked, anyway. The target has left only a three minute window of opportunity, and this job has been poorly organised and thrown together in a sudden rush effort that doesn't make him feel remotely confident.

All they’ve given him is the guy’s headshot. 

And it’s terrible, because now he is ridding the world of one more ridiculously attractive, instant pants dropping- take me now, if you please- regulation hottie.

Even if he has a scowl to rival Kristen Stewart. 

The photo of him isn’t even that good to begin with. It’s pretty grainy. Only capturing the side profile of his face, because they’ve had technical trouble with security cameras whenever the dude turns his eyes on them. 

Stiles is basically firing in the dark, here. And he doesn’t even really need the money for this job. Although, it _is _a pretty banging amount to remove the man with unusually communicative eyebrows from the plane of existence. ____

It’s too bad, really. But he’s been doing this for years now, and there’s no point bitching about the job that needs to be done. Or crying into his pillow over the shattered dreams of actually resisting serial killer status- his profession isn’t really helping him in that regard.

So instead of getting the hell out of dodge or maybe flinging himself readily over the Top Of The Rock observation deck, he crouches down and starts assembling his weapon.

It’s because of moments like this that people doubt he has ADHD- when he’s able to hyper focus on the task, slipping so easily into concentration that the rest of the city falls away. It’s only when he opens his mouth or lets go of the rifle that they realise what they're dealing with. 

The SR-25 is easy to work with, and it may or may not have become his precious since the very first time he handled it. If he were willing to make Lord of the Rifle comments which he is, much to the chagrin of his ABOM-nation colleagues. 

He’s worked for ABOM-nation for two years now and his track record is perfect. Pristine. Not a single mistake, or target gone AWOL. Stiles never fails an assignment which is why ABOM-nation love him so freaking much. 

He tried to ask once what the acronym stood for, but Lydia had only rolled her eyes and answered 'Attractive But Overzealous Murderers' so he figured it was safer to leave it a mystery. Another part of the whole 'mystique' thing.

It only takes him a minute of fast moving hands to put it all together into the killing machine the SR-25 is designed to be. Then he’s moving into place, adjusting the scope so that it’s in the right position. 

The guy’s meant to be meeting someone, so he’s got enough time to set this up, even if he’s had a bad ju ju feeling from the beginning and probably didn’t bypass the security system properly on his way up. The cops will probably arrest him before he can even consider shooting anybody.

He takes a deep breath, and lets his mind wander along aimlessly as he scans the area below. The wind is going to throw the trajectory off, and it’s an insult to his skills if he doesn’t take the guy down in one shot. So he does the math, calculating how impossible this kill is going to be, and just how much he’s going to rub it in Jackson’s face when he succeeds. 

His track record is flawless and he knows it pisses off the rest of the guys back at ABOM-nation, but only because they can’t handle that level of accuracy. And Stiles can. He’s been handling it since he took on the damn job. It’s like he was made for it.

He rolls his shoulders a bit as he waits, stiff from the flight that brought him into the Big Apple to commit this flawless murder. 

The New Yorkers mostly ignored him, except for the very accommodating couple who handed him the rifle case before vanishing into the crowd of Times Square. Because ABOM-nation isn’t good enough, or stupid enough to attempt to smuggle weapons on a flight.

Stiles blinks a couple times, because the wind is battering at his eyelids and making them water, and he is not the kind of assassin that does the dramatic single-tear-sliding-down-the-cheek thing after shooting someone’s brains out.

Because his life is not a fucking melodrama.

So he wipes at his eyes distractedly, and waits for the wind to die down a little before he attempts to shoot it. He sighs, and then nearly drops the rifle when the target finally shows his face near the edge of the ice rink at the Rockefeller below. 

He takes the time to inspect his face, just to be sure he’s not killing some random civilian, but the profile is undeniable. 

Yep, definite regulation hottie. Allison, Lydia and Danny will probably kick him for this. He flexes his hands so they don’t cramp up while he waits for the guy to waltz into position and an early funeral. 

Stiles shifts as he crouches over the ledge, tapping his feet impatiently as he watches. He’s jittery, and that’s never a good sign. The bad feeling he’s had from the beginning feels a little worse, and his intuition is saying this entire situation is a write-off, and a general big no no. 

He’s going to kill Lydia for giving him this assignment. He'd had a whole weekend of couch potatoing planned before she came along and ruined everything. And no, he does not forgive her from drawing him away from it. There's a whole arsenal of other ABOM-nations she could've selected instead, especially since she'd overheard him gloating hard about his aforementioned super chill weekend approaching. Now, she's clearly just being mean.

Finally, thank God, the guy shifts forward into his sight. And Stiles feels like he can breathe easier for a moment. He double checks the calculations are right- he doesn’t want to crush his record now, just because he’d rather be climbing the guy like a tree than killing him. Because that is not the way of the professional killer. Or any kind of professional, really.

But everything seems alright. Maybe he's just being a little overdramatic. The flight _had _thrown off his body clock, and it is true that he's still feeling a little jet-lagged. Maybe that's all it is. ____

That's probably the reason, he quickly decides, eager to put this uncertainty behind him. He shakes himself for good measure as if that would push away the bad feeling, and resigns himself to the task of removing this fine piece of male specimen from the world. God, Danny is going to hit him so hard.

His finger slides over the trigger in a light, casual caress. 

“Sorry, dude,” he mutters and flicks off the safety.

And that’s when it all goes to shit.

Because suddenly the guy whips his head around, and _looks _directly into his scope as if Stiles had called out to him from some 260 metres above ground level.__

__Stiles is so surprised that his finger actually falls away from the trigger. And then suddenly the guy is gone. Confused, Stiles quickly adjusts the scope, but the man has vanished altogether._ _

____

Well, fuck. 

____

Stiles lowers the rifle and tries to use his naked eye to glance over the ledge below instead. He looks just in time to see the guy disappear into the lobby below with purpose to his stride.

____

Not running away from him. Oh no. Running _towards _him. And this is a very bad sign. He's so screwed now.__

“Oh, shit!” he gasps, tripping over the rifle case and nearly firing off a shot into the sky as he falls on his ass, suddenly thanking God he’d taken his finger off the trigger. 

This is the extent of weird crap he's willing to endure for the day, and Stiles gives up.

Time to bounce. 

He scurries to disassemble the weapon, heart thumping frantically in his chest, because the target somehow fucking knew where he was, and what he’d been about to do and is _now coming to get him _. And Stiles doesn't think it's so they can exchange cell numbers.__

__His hands are shaking by the time he’s stuffed everything back into its proper place, adrenaline rushing through him and making the rifle case much lighter when he lifts it and sprints off the observation deck._ _

He pauses at the elevator, tempted by the easy option, but goes for the emergency stairs instead using his free hand to withdraw the Glock nestled safely within a holster strapped to his leg. He huffs out a litany of profanities as he takes the descent into hell, running down the steps from the _70th _floor, mind racing.__

The target. How the fuck had he known? It was literally like he’d _heard _Stiles, and that kind of shit is impossible unless you're superman or have a bionic ear or something. And if that is the case, it would have been in manila folder he’d received for the assignment.__

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses when he almost face plants. 

His feet feel like they are moving too fast for his body. The momentum propels him downward much quicker than what might be deemed safe.

This has to be a set up. Or an inside job. Jesus, he didn’t think Jackson had it in him. His footsteps thunder along the concrete steps, his heart pounding in his ears, but that still doesn’t drown out the resounding growl that echoes up from below. 

He cranes his neck over the railing, staring down into the abyss and catching sight of the man as he stares up at him. Even Stiles can see the furious expression from where he's standing. Oh, Jesus. Miguel is definitely _not _happy. ____

And Stiles is beginning to doubt that was even his real name to begin with.

“Holy shit,” he cries, and fires without stopping.

Even with a Glock his shot is still accurate, and he hears the sharp crack as the bullet embeds itself in the concrete where the target had been standing seconds before. The accompanying grunt of surprise is immensely satisfying, but what's worse is the lack of any return fire. Only the ominous sound of rumbling footsteps as the target races up to meet him.

And it is that fact, that the man _knows _he has a rifle, and a Glock, and can have no doubt of his expert marksmanship, but is _still _fucking ascending the stairwell that scares him shitless. ______

Because he's pretty sure the target is completely unarmed, and Stiles is now extremely tempted to turn around and run back the way he’d come. The sound of pounding feet is distracting his thought process, but he manages to block it out to come up with a plan.

The guy probably isn’t too far from the ground floor. If Stiles reaches him, he might be able to jump from there. Realising that means he has to pick up the pace, Stiles puts on a burst of speed and ignores the strain in his wrist from the weight of the case. 

He’s going to retire. This is it. He is so done with this shit right now. And he’d fucked up his flawless kill record. Screw this, he’d rather move to the Cayman Islands where his offshore bank account lives.

Maybe he should go to college, do something meaningful, and yet tame as fuck, with his life. Be a school teacher. He nearly trips again, but his other foot is moving too fast and its already on the next step before he can completely fall ass over face. 

Stiles doesn't stop to comprehend how much that would've freaking hurt. He’s pretty fit for his age, but Jesus after so many levels his thighs are starting to ache, and his lungs are burning. He doesn’t even wanna know about the other guy running _up _the stairs.__

But he’s lean and fast, whereas the target, from what he’d been able to see, is huge and broad shouldered with muscles flexing on top of his other muscles, so he has the advantage. For now, at least. 

Only, the rifle case is slowing him down. And that is not going to help him when he makes contact with the target, unless it’s assembled and ready to fire. And he doesn’t have the time for that. Plus, a rifle in an emergency stairwell seems a bit like overkill. There's a increased likelihood that the bullets will ricochet in the close quarters and hit Stiles instead. It's a calculated risk he is not prepared to take.

The levels blur past him as he runs.

62nd floor.

61st floor.

Trips again on the 60th.

And the 58th. 

Charlie Horse on the 46th. 

Fires another warning shot on the 44th. 

And on the 42nd.

It’s the 34th floor that things finally get interesting. Contact. Houston we have made contact.

But Stiles doesn't stop, and lifts the case like a protective shield in front of him, nearly dropping the Glock as he jumps the last few steps to the landing. The full weight of his body and the case slam into the target’s chest. 

The man staggers backwards, stunned by the blow, and Stiles has the briefest glance of blood red eyes before he’s throwing himself straight off of the railing.

On the 34th floor.

Freefall is always a bitch. So he spreads his arms out almost instantly, reaching for the railing below and nearly wrenching his arms out of their sockets when gravity doesn’t want to let him go just yet. He drops the gun in the process, but he doubts it will help him much, anyway. 

The target didn’t seem too worried about it. He pulls himself back up over the railing, scrambling quickly to get over when suddenly the guy is _there. ___

Stiles lets out a strangled sound of shock, as the target seizes him by the front of his shirt, lifting him into the air. The muscles in his arms bunch when he twists and pushes Stiles against the opposite wall. Stiles' mouth is still open wide with shock. Where the hell had this guy come from?

“Who are you?” he snarls, getting right up into Stiles' personal space. 

And would it be totally awkward if he popped a you're-trying-to-kill-me-but-I-still-find-this-hot, boner right now?

“Batman,” Stiles says, because he's nothing if not original, before kneeing Miguel in the balls and embedding a knife he’d pulled from the strap on his wrist into the guy's back when he jerks forward instinctively to cover his damaged package. 

Stiles regrets that, he does.

The target twists out of range so the wound isn’t fatal, but it’s a good enough distraction, and the guy lets go of him pretty quickly after that. 

Stiles scrambles away in the interim, sprinting down the staircase, taking them two at a time and not thinking about how warm the guy’s hands had felt on him. His unassembled rifle is a level up and below is his Glock, lying somewhere between him and the exit. There is no hesitation.

Stiles goes down. He can almost feel the guy’s breath on his neck, though he probably isn’t that close. Hitting someone’s balls is a sure fire way of slowing them down. Along with stabbing them. 

Only, he isn’t so sure with this guy. 

The way he moves. It’s just unnatural. Almost inhuman. Stiles stuffs his fingers into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving something he keeps there for emergencies or really flashy and ostentatious exits. And this little clusterfuck seems to call for both.

He throws the smoke grenade behind him and keeps running, feeling those blood red eyes on his back. 

The guy disappears a second later in an explosion of grey smoke.

Stiles trips again on the 22nd floor.

On the 13th, he thinks he hears an animal snarling.

On the 7th, he trips over his Glock, but shoots straight to his feet again, fingers closing over the weapon and taking it with him. 

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the ground floor, turning around at the last possible second and squinting through the smoke, expecting the guy to come barreling out like GI Joe.

But he doesn’t. The target is gone. And he is very much not-dead and still attractive.

And there goes Stiles’ confirmed kills record.

  
  
  
  
  
  
He pulls out the disposable phone that he's using at the moment- after stowing his gun away- and makes his way towards open traffic. He quickly hails a cab, ignoring the fact that he is covered in smoke dust and limping slightly.

“JFK international,” he spits out irritably, already dialing. 

The driver nods, and pulls away from the curb, leaving the scene of Stiles' epic failure behind. She picks up on the first ring.

“ABOM-nation. How may we kill for you today?” Lydia drawls out, with her typical level of murderous enthusiasm. 

Lydia, just Lydia- first names only is the first rule of ABOM-nation- has been working there much longer than he has. 

And she's absolutely terrifying.

“I quit,” he says. “I’m done. This is so not how I pictured my day going. Oh, and I’m going to kill you, by the way.”

“Oh? Do tell?” Lydia encourages, and he can already see her twirling a strawberry blonde lock of hair in thoughtful response to his death threat. 

At least she didn't laugh, that would have made him _really _feel like killing her. Or die trying. He's not entirely sure who would come out alive after that particular confrontation. ____

“I was made before I could, uh… file the contract,” he says.

“Stiles, you can put away the tin foil hat. The line’s secure. I’ve told you a billion times.”

He rolls his eyes, ignoring the furtive looks the taxi driver keeps shooting him as if expecting Stiles to pull a gun on him or something which has to be ironic because he actually _has _a gun- safely back in its holster though. For the moment.__

“I’m in a taxi,” he explains. “And what can I say? I’m old school paranoid. You should have dated me when you had the chance.”

Lydia scoffs, and it does not remotely wound his man pride. Her tendency to instil horror in any who encounter her has deterred any further romantic involvement past the harmless flirting stage. That, and she's clearly not interested in him. Considering the sparseness of his dating life right now, he is all about the harmless flirting stage. It's safer that way. 

“Why, because I want to wear tin foil hats too?” she wonders.

“Because my cat like reflexes and ninja instincts could save your life one day. It freaking saved mine tonight.”

“What are you…?”

He glances up at the driver and lowers his voice. 

“Contact. Okay? I didn’t file the contract, because as soon as I was about to he turned around and _looked _right at me. Right through the scope notes, and the trigger date was unwillingly postponed.”__

He can hear Lydia’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Who the hell is this Miguel guy, anyway?” he demands. “And why did I end up with the last minute, papier-mâchéd effort of a contract?”

Lydia goes silent for a moment, and all he can hear is the frenzied typing of her manicured fingers across the keyboard. 

“He scared me shitless, you know,” he continues. “I’m going to be looking over my shoulder for weeks and don’t even let me get started on how freaking attractive the dude was…”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, and Stiles goes still, listening intently for the penny to drop. 

Because he's been trained to predict these kind of things in this line of business and there's a definite fucking penny to be dropped here. 

He waits impatiently for her to continue, knowing if he presses her for details when she isn’t ready, she’ll just hang up on him. Lydia's probably not the best secretary ABOM-nation could've employed, which is probably why she's actually in charge of finances and coordinating their assignments. Hanging up on employees, and clients, is Lydia's special way of imposing conflict resolution. 

At least she's still discreet. 

“Stiles, I never authorised this,” she says slowly, tone already conspiratorial. 

“So, it _was _a fuck up,” he guesses, feeling relieved that he's not to blame. “Does that mean my filing record isn’t broken?”__

“Oh, it’s broken, alright,” she says sounding serious, and basically confirming how much the shit has hit the fan- metaphorically speaking. 

“By none other than the expert contract killer of ALPHA, Derek Hale.”

Stiles swears so loudly the taxi driver flinches. 

ALPHA, aka Adept Liquidating Professional Hire Assassins, is a rival gun for hire organisation of ABOM-nation, also known by Lydia as A Licentious Passé of Hopeless Assholes (she's got a gift for withering acronyms, and is not afraid to use it). 

“What the hell happened?” she asks.

He sighs, rubbing at the back of his head tiredly. 

“I told you. Contact happened. I was made as soon as I tried to file him, and then he caught me in the emergency stairwell.”

“Did you say anything to him? Like, say it was ABOM-nation who was trying to kill him?” she asks, trying to cover the company’s ass first before she does anything else. 

It's clear where her loyalties are. Obviously, not with the guy who baked the cake for her birthday at the office last month. Or did the frosting. The fucking perfect frosting. Lydia has no idea what's she's missing out on. 

“He asked who I was. And I said, 'Batman'.”

Lydia sighs forlornly, and he grins, leaning back into the seat in satisfaction, spreading out in a display of sudden overconfidence. As one liners go, he's pretty proud of the that one. Being a sniper doesn't give him much opportunity for banter. 

“Of course, you did. My God, how are you not dead right now,” she says, huffing as if the fact disappoints her greatly.

His grin widens. “Just lucky, and you better stop with the flattery. You still suck, and I still quit. I am never filing for you, or for anyone, ever again. So you can forget it.”

“Finstock wants you in HQ as soon as you land,” she says sharply. “And I hope ALPHA guns you down on your way here.”

“Lyds you’re breaking my heart,” he promises, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

She snorts, and hangs up so he clearly failed at that, too.

So he relaxes further into the seat instead, drinking up the failure and general suckage that is now his life and it's all thanks to Mr Derek, I’m-a-bigshot-ALPHA-who-can-kill-people-better-than-you, fucking Hale.

Jackson is going to tear him to shreds. He’ll never live this down. For shame. But not before Finstock gets to him first. Stiles sighs, and closes his eyes, still seeing that flash of red beneath his eyelids. 

He ignores the slight flush of arousal that twists through him when he pictures Derek’s face and stores that in his wank bank for later. That is after he's been reamed within an inch of his life and retreats back to the safety of his apartment.

God dammit, why hadn’t he just listened to the bad ju ju feeling he’d had from the beginning? Then they wouldn't be in this mess. And he wouldn't be stubbornly trying to figure out what the hell Derek Hale is.

And failing. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
Finstock tears him to shreds as soon as he arrives at the super secret location of ABOM-nation HQ. He’s been working for Finstock’s company for two years now, and he’s never been involved in such a cock up as this. And it isn’t even his fucking fault. 

Plus, there is no way Jackson hasn’t heard about it by now which totally sucks ass. Jackson's gonna be a little shit about it, Stiles can feel it in his bones. 

“I don’t care,” he says when Finstock finally takes a break from yelling for over twenty minutes, to gulp air into his lungs. “I quit. Go hire some other fucking expert marksmen prodigy, if you can goddamn find one.”

Finstock’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “You can’t quit, you’re suspended until further notice. We don’t know how they’ll retaliate after you went after their best killer,” he barks. “So, you’re grounded until we give you the all-clear.”

Fucking A. Stiles resists the urge to shoot him, an itch he’s been wanting to scratch for years. “You’re the freaking sons of bitches who sent me on the assignment. Don’t put this shit on me. I lost my rifle, anyway,” he says. “So, if they retaliate I guess I’ll just die, see how you like that.”

“We didn’t bother with retrieval, because it was too dangerous and the area was compromised after contact was made. Lydia is ordering you a new weapon. You still have your Glock?”

He nods, tempted to withdraw it from its holster and wave it around for good measure because apparently he can’t be freaking trusted with simple tasks like that anymore. “Borrow Allison’s spare crossbow if you want extra protection. She’s out on assignment."

The last thing he wants is to start wielding someone else’s weapons. God, especially Allison’s. She’s ultimate old school; hunting bows, crossbows and the like, and all of them deadly. He still can’t believe Scott had thought it was a good idea to date her. She is almost as intense as Lydia. 

Stiles groans. He’d just wanted to bitch about losing his weapon, because he is Lord of the Rifle no longer and the black hole of loss inside his chest needs to be acknowledged. Oh God, he needs whiskey. This is not okay.

And it is all fucking Miguel’s fault.

“I’ll survive without it,” he retorts. “Now, I’m going home, before you send me some other contract bullshit that makes me lose my Glock, as well.”

Finstock frowns, but doesn’t protest. “We’ll call you when the heat’s off.”

Stiles is already leaving the office by then and flips him off as he goes. He nearly runs straight into Scott outside the doorway. 

“Hey, buddy,” he says, catching Scott with a weapon swung over his shoulder . “You about to go out on assignment?”

Scott smiles. “Nah, I’m done. What happened to you? You look like shit. Jackson was bragging about you failing your kill record?”

“That’s a total technicality!” he protests. “The contract was a total set-up.”

Scott’s expression hardens, losing his sweet, easy going edge for a moment. “By those ALPHA douches? Jackson said it had to do with them. Anyway that sucks, man. You free now?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I just wanna crash on my couch, eat pizza and watch shitty TV until Finstock gives me the all-clear. You in?”

“Cheesy crust?”

“My man, it is not pizza without cheesy crust,” he states seriously.

Scott grins. “Can’t argue with that.”

  
  
  
  
  
Stiles knows something is up as soon as he climbs out of the Jeep. 

He wants to say it's like a sixth sense; a disturbance in the force kind of feeling, but it's really the fact that it's almost two in the morning and he can see the front door of his apartment is ajar. And Stiles knows that he locked it yesterday before he left. Scott is already sampling the pizza and nearly walks straight into him, almost covering Stiles in the entire box.

He signals quietly for him to go around the back as he withdraws his gun, and then continues a heated silent discussion over whether or not Scott should take the pizza with him. Scott does, but not before Stiles slaps him over the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Scott grunts quietly at him, and flips him the bird before disappearing around the back of his house.

The front door awaits him, and Stiles creeps inside, slowly reaching for the light switch beside the door. His heart races in the silence but he takes a calming breath before flicking the switch, flooding the living room with artificial light. 

He nearly shoots Scott when he spots him seated at the kitchen table, gun in one hand, pizza slice in the other. The eternal multitasker. 

“What the _fuck _?” he demands, glancing around his trashed apartment.__

__It had already been kind of trashed already but there was a careful system to the mess then, now it’s just messed up. And people are going to pay for this._ _

It looks like a two man job. Only done a couple of hours ago. Probably as soon as he’d left New York. 

They’ve broken a couple lamps, knocked the TV over and raided his fridge, the bastards. But even he can’t ignore the ALPHA logo spray painted over the main wall in the lounge room. 

Jesus, did they have to tag his apartment too? He isn’t stupid, it’s not hard to figure out who the fuck he’s dealing with. That kind of shit will take ages to clean off. If it can be cleaned off at all.

“ALPHA,” Scott deduces thoughtfully, around his third slice of pizza. 

Stiles doesn’t comment and leaves to inspect the rest of the house, gun ready just in case he can take his frustration out on someone. It’s pretty much the same result. 

They’ve fucked around with his music collection, torn apart his bed and located his porn stash but his computer is untouched. Probably, because they were too piss stupid to figure out the password. Fucking ALPHA’s. They're like the jock version of hitmen. More like a jock strap. 

He's too furious to speak and when he comes back to the living room, Scott has nearly cleaned off the rest of the pizza. Thank God, he’d thought to buy another one, though he’d better eat something before Scott works his way to that one too.

As soon as Scott had joined ABOM-nation, they’d been friends and Scott, the science wonder has always been able to eat an unreasonable amount of food without spontaneously combusting. Stiles has just learnt to restock his fridge when he visits, and to keep the food he doesn’t want eaten away from Scott’s unhingeable jaw.

But normal Scott behaviour doesn’t make him feel any better right now. It just makes everything else look out of place and more wrong. 

“Fuck!” he spits, kicking the coffee table over angrily with his boot in a poor attempt to channel his anger into something constructive.

Scott seems to take that as an indication to stop eating. “What are you going to do, dude? They know where you live.”

Stiles makes his way over to the cupboard, and pulls out his bottle of Jack. “I’m gonna get drunk,” he resolves. “And then I’m driving home to check on my dad.”

Scott looks surprised. “That’s like an eleven hour drive.”

“So?” he demands, rejoining him at the table and slamming the bottle down onto it loud enough that it rattles. He snags a slice of pizza, and places his Glock on the table next to it. “They already found my apartment. It’s not gonna be hard to find my dad, he’s the fucking Sheriff.”

“You want company?” 

He shakes his head, taking a swig of the Jack and enjoying the burn as it slides down his throat. “Nah, it’s cool. You still got assignments. I’ll take care of it.”

Scott shrugs and resumes eating his pizza. 

“Fucking ALPHA’s,” he spits out bitterly a couple of minutes later, feet resting on the wooden chair as they watch the TV sideways. They're too bone-tired to turn it upright or clean up the rest of the apartment. Scott takes a swig of the Jack, and nods solemnly on his billionth slice of pizza.

“Fucking ALPHA’s” he agrees. 

  
  
  
  
  
The drive the next morning is torture, made worse by the less than five hour sleep cycle under his belt and a brain splitting headache courtesy of the now empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his living room floor. Along with the several empty pizza boxes.

He’s loaded up the jeep with weapons to the point that any highway patrol will probably think he’s a terrorist if they search it. He has his own personal semi automatic sniper rifle for pleasure, not business, as well as a ridiculous amount of smoke grenades, knives and plastic explosives. He even brought a crossbow, feeling almost as old school as Allison.

And maybe a little more whiskey to ease the pain. He calls his dad on his actual cell phone to let him know he’s coming, tempted to go out and buy a new disposable one, because apparently working as a contract killer for a classified organisation doesn’t mean you have any privacy whatsoever from rival companies out for revenge.

God, they probably fucking _googled _him or something. It should not have been that easy to find him. Finstock should be embarrassed. ABOM-nation can’t protect identities for shit. Which is why he isn’t taking any chances. Not if his dad is involved.__

He is only a couple hours into the worst drive in the history of cars when his newest disposable work cell rings just after a pit stop to refuel.

“So, here’s the deal,” Lydia begins. “Finstock explained the cock up to ALPHA, and it’s not going to turn into a turf war or anything personal.”

“They trashed my apartment,” he argues back. “That’s pretty damn personal.”

“Well, you tried to kill their best man,” she retorts. “What do you want a medal?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I want to find out who gave me the assignment to begin with.”

“We’re working on it. But that’s not why I called you,” she says airily. “ALPHA may be peachy with what happened, but Derek Hale is not.”

“I only sort of stabbed him,” he offers. “I don’t get why he’s so pissed.”

“Sure, you don’t,” she laughs. “But what I’m trying to say is, they’ve decided to leave it between you two to sort out. If one of you dies, nobody can be blamed for the death because it’s wont be affiliated with ALPHA or ABOM-nation.”

“Screw that,” Stiles says. “So, you’re saying Derek Hale is coming after me? And I’ve got diplomatic immunity, so to speak, if he dies in the process?”

“If you can kill him,” Lydia counters, sagely. “Then yes. But I think you could just as easily sort it out with make up sex.”

Stiles tries to ignore how much he responds to that idea, because it sounds awesome. “I volunteer!” he cries. “I will offer myself on the Derek altar to right this terrible wrong.”

Lydia laughs. “You’re an idiot. And if he kills you… you’re still an idiot.”

‘Thanks,” he says. “And I always thought you were a sadist.”

Lydia goes silent, and Stiles violently jerks the wheel, nearly swerving into the other lane at the sudden rush of pure, unfiltered terror. 

“What?” she deadpans, and he knows like he's never known anything in his life, that he will one day die at her hands, and her hands alone.

Stiles doesn’t deny that he hangs up the cell, and throws it across the car space in horror. And then his actual non-work cell starts ringing soon after. He answers it without looking at the caller ID, assuming it’s his father, because Lydia needs Danny to be able to access his private number that quickly so he's safe.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t worry I’ll be there soon.”

“Where?” a familiar voice asks. A voice he remembers hearing very distinctly before he kneed them in the balls and stabbed them. 

Fuck.

“Oh, God. How the fuck did you get this number?” he demands, tightening his grip on the wheel, because he officially has a stalker right now. 

And Stiles is not a fan of conflict. He is a passive aggressive, shoot from miles away kind of guy. This direct approach is freaking him out.

He listens to Derek chuckle, and struggles to deny how much he enjoys the sound. “Batman, I assume?” 

“What do you want to be called? Fucking Miguel?” he retorts, knowing his heart is pounding in his chest like Derek's sitting right next to him in the jeep.

Derek ignores the insult. “I have your knife,” he says conversationally, as if they both don’t know it was wedged in Derek’s back several hours ago. 

Is he fishing for an apology or something? He's not going to get one.

“Well, I have your ALPHA logo sprayed onto my fucking apartment wall, so how 'bout you keep it?” he tells him. “Or better yet, why don't you stab yourself with it, save me the trouble.” 

Derek doesn’t seem too intimidated by his death threat, but then again no one usually is, so it’s no shock. “You know, we don’t have to kill each other,” he admits slowly as if wanting to hear Stiles’ opinion on the matter. Which is a pretty interesting tactic. 

Is Derek trying to lure him into a false sense of security?

The comment throws him for a second, because Lydia made it seem like that was _exactly _what he wanted to do. “Oh,” he responds eloquently, wondering why he’s having such a casual conversation about this. Should they make a deal? Bet on it? ____

“But I want to,” Derek clarifies, and his light tone takes on a dangerous edge. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t tried to kill me.”

As threats go, it's pretty damn good. 

Stiles does not think that Derek sounds totally hot when he’s threatening to kill him because that would be a little weird. And potentially sick. He doesn’t scare him, either. Stiles knows he can handle him. Once he figures out what the fuck he's dealing with.

“First of all, it was a contract, okay? I was just doing my job. You can’t blame me for this assignment bullshit, though everyone else is trying to. And second of all, you can give it your best shot buddy but I don’t die easy, you got that? You’ve probably got ALPHA spies in ABOM-nation, you’re not stupid so I know you’ve heard of me and my kill record.”

Derek pauses for a moment as if he’s thinking it over. “Then why are you running?” 

Stiles nearly drives the car off the road, because holy fuck this guy already knows that he’s left his apartment which must means he’s _there _. Right now. Or he's already been there. Jesus, this guy does not appreciate being stabbed. ____

“Don’t touch my porn,” he says unthinkingly.

Derek actually laughs, confirming his suspicions and his heart sinks because this sounds like a game to him. A game he seems to enjoy very much. Hunting. Or at least stalking. Definitely a predator type of guy.

“You have interesting tastes,” he says, and even Stiles can hear the edge of flirtation in the way he speaks. 

God, this is not good. Is this guy for real honest to God flirting with him right now as he threatens to kill him? That has to be illegal. Or at least frowned upon in most states.

“I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy,” he explains a little hesitantly, because this guy has to be freaking crazy to want to discuss his bisexuality whilst simultaneously threatening to kill him. 

He might be more terrifying than Lydia, even. 

“So, that’s why you apologised.” 

Stiles frowns. Everything Derek is saying is throwing him off his game because half of it doesn't make a lick of sense. “I didn’t apologise,” he protests. “And I’m not running. I’m making sure things are safe.”

“That’s the same thing,” Derek points out, ever so helpfully. “And yes you did. You said ‘sorry, dude’ before you tried to kill me.” 

And sweet mother of God, how does he _know_ this? Stiles was on the 70th floor of a building. It's impossible. 

“You _heard_ that? What kind of steroids are you on?”

Derek laughs again, and Stiles is starting to enjoy this a lot more than he should. He's even deluding himself into thinking he might have a thing for this nutjob. “None. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I have your scent now, I’ll find you no matter how far you run.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open, but he manages to respond, summoning up a false bravado. “Bring it,” he challenges. “We’ll see who’s talking the talk and who’s dead.”

Derek growls, and it seems like a challenge as well. 

“I’ll see you soon, Stiles,” he promises. 

And just like that the rules are set. The game is on. And Stiles is never ever doing anything for Lydia ever again. Like ever.

“I’ll be waiting.”

  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any weapon or terminology errors are my own. I'm not a sniper/assassin so I'm just winging it and hoping for the best :D
> 
> -Luna


	2. Heart Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a stalker. Of the ALPHA kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Derek is in fact not from Beacon Hills. Only Stiles is. I don't want him to be a local because of reasons :P and I really don't know how this chapter happened. I'm not even sorry :D
> 
> (ALSO I MUST WARN YOU THERE IS TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE VIOLENCE TOWARDS CARS IN THIS CHAPTER. AND I APOLOGISE FOR INFLICTING THIS PAIN ON YOU)
> 
> Enjoy!

# Heart Punch

#    


Derek hangs up with a laugh as if Stiles’ threats are amusing and not at all threatening and he resists the urge to throw yet another cell phone across the car in the space of several minutes. 

It’s starting to become a bad habit. 

This is fucked. Stiles wants to have a panic attack and pull the jeep over and drown his highly sexually frustrated sorrows in the alcohol stashed in the back and forget this ever happened.

He’s also embarrassed to notice that just talking to Derek over a long distance phone call has him hard and aching. 

It’s wrong, but the kind of wrong where clothes start ripping off and Stiles ends up crying out _then baby I don’t want to be right! _And that kind of wrong always ends in either embarrassingly over the top romantic failure or hot, raunchy sex. There is no in-between.__

__Although, the likelihood of raunchy sex is looking slimmer than Stiles missing a target at this point. But it must be the week for breaking unbreakable things, since his perfect record is all but destroyed so maybe he’s got a shot in Derek’s pants after all. Anything's possible, if his dick just believes._ _

God, it’s so unfair that he wants to slam his forehead against the steering wheel until he brains himself.

Instead, he retrieves his Glock and settles it in his lap as if to remind his penis to stand down or he’ll shoot it off. Not that he’s planning on doing that just yet. Or wanking off either, because he can’t really have highway patrol breathing down his neck with such a red flag arsenal of weapons waiting to be found in the back seat. 

Plus, his dad will hear about it and Stiles doesn’t want to explain how much he really doesn’t blow people’s brains out for a living. 

Or that he’s fucking ace at it, either.

Stiles isn’t much of a liar, so he doesn’t see his dad as much as he used to. Half of the time people are after him and it’s too dangerous to expose the people he loves to those kinds of risks. 

Plus, he feels pretty guilty about lying through his ass every time he visits. And lying is pretty damn hard. 

There are so many smaller lies that make the bigger lie more believable and every single one of them is harder to remember than the last.

What sucks is keeping track of it all. He’d rather just shoot his dad than bother to explain what the hell he’s doing with his life. He thinks the story is he’s still in college taking a teaching degree or something. 

And Stiles could be wrong, but he’s supposed to be in his second year, though hell, even he isn’t too sure about that anymore. Which is why his dad was immediately suspicious when he'd called out of the blue to announce that he's coming to visit.

It’s a whole other level of screwed that Stiles is going to have to try to protect his dad whilst outrunning an ALPHA –the best one there is, apparently- and keeping the fact that he probably knows guns better than the Sheriff does, a secret. 

There are no more calls for the rest of the drive, which makes him want to weep with joy at the small favour the universe seems to have granted him. And by the time he’s only the next town over from Beacon Hills, night has almost fallen so he’s made pretty good time.

He only just passes the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign when he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia. Only that feeling dies out pretty quick once he figures out he’s being tailed by another car. 

They haven’t been behind him long; he would have noticed, otherwise. But it's enough to make him tense in preparation of an attack. 

Stiles is too paranoid to let things like this go unnoticed. Because that’d be how he ends up dead. His fingers wrap around his gun instinctively as the car speeds up so that they can be seen in his rear vision mirror like they’re trying to get his attention.

He pulls off to the side of the road already ready to strike, thinking if he’s going to have this showdown it better be now when he’s not in town where there’s too many civilians and witnesses. 

The hard on that he’d been nursing for a while and had finally started fade, perks up in interest again, and he curses at its return. Is it weird that he’s highly aroused at the idea of another encounter with Derek?

Jesus, he is so fucked up. He needs to get laid before this gets out of control. But God, wouldn’t it be much more awesome to work up a sweat with Derek without trying to kill him? Stiles likes Lydia’s suggestion a whole lot more than he should. 

This is bad. He smacks the butt of the gun against his kneecap hard, punishingly so. He needs his head in the game.

“Oh, fuck,” he swears at the rush of pain, but it clears his mind out of the gutter a little so he can think.

His attraction to this guy is going to get him killed. He needs another alternative than shooting his own balls off. The car doesn’t keep driving, and the slim hope it’s all a misunderstanding dwindles before his eyes. 

He doesn’t bother to get out of the car. It’s too late for any surprise attacks that way. He needs to lure Derek towards him first before he can do anything.

A figure emerges in uniform, and Stiles is surprised that he went to so much effort just to get him. He’s seen shorter vendettas from people who have had their legs blown off. 

And all Stiles did was check him out through a scope and introduce him to the joys of having a knife (non-fatally) stuck in his body. The non-fatal distinction is _very_ important. 

Oh, and he kneed him in the balls. Probably shouldn’t be forgetting that so easily. Derek definitely hasn’t.

This guy has to have some kind of temperamental anger management issues. Stiles cracks the window, before flicking the safety off, and waits patiently for him to walk towards the driver’s side. 

His heart is pumping frantically in his chest and he’s a mixture of excited, horrified and turned on all at the same time. It’s probably one of the weirdest combinations he’s ever worked with in his life.

Rationally, on some level he knows that Derek’s rattled him. A target’s never contacted him before or broken into his apartment. Things have never been this confrontational. Or so close to home. 

ABOM-nation may not be good at keeping things private, but Stiles usually took care of that himself. And now Derek’s found him. He’s good, better than Stiles was expecting. 

Fucking Miguel.

It’s an entirely new playing field and he’s still trying to adjust to all the new rules. Rule number one being contact. Contact is a given and cannot be avoided. Stiles better start working on his witty banter. 

He’s ready to shoot first, ask questions later. He knows he’s stressed, hungover and has been driving for too long without a break so his mind isn’t operating properly. 

But it’s operating enough to recognise that the figure approaching is in fact female. He doesn’t relax, because ALPHA isn’t gender exclusive and he has no idea how far Derek’s willing to go to make this even.

“Stiles?” 

Oh, shit. He fumbles to conceal the gun as a deputy who works for his dad steps up to his window. 

She’s definitely not going to politely ignore a weapon if it’s sitting in his lap.

“Karen? Hey, long time no see. How’s it going?”

She leans casually over the edge of the open window and tries not to double check the weapons in the back aren’t visible, because that would probably bring attention to the fact that he’s carrying a small flotilla of weaponry upon his person for unimaginable reasons.

“I though it was your jeep,” she muses. “What are you doing back home?”

He lets out an uncomfortable laugh, feeling the sweat trickling down his back and sticking him to the seat. Oh, the joys of forced small talk. 

“Thought it was time for a little family bonding.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe him, but then again he hasn’t given anybody much of a reason to lately. 

It’s been years since he’s actually visited. He normally flies his dad up to his place for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and such. Though, the safety of his apartment is compromised of late.

“He’ll be glad to see you,” she says honestly, adjusting her weapon holster unconsciously as if her gun senses are tingling. 

Stiles' mouth runs dry.

After a pause, she offers wryly to give him directions to his own house, and Stiles waves her away wondering when she’d gotten so snarky. 

Maybe things have changed since he left. She smiles, and squeezes his arm through the open window and Stiles nearly blows his foot off in surprise.

The gun is still hanging loosely in his grip out of sight and he hastily aims the weapon away from his feet. She waves, and walks back to her own car as if she’s done her policing for the night and he pulls back onto the road, placing the gun gingerly back into his lap again. 

When he finally arrives home and parks in the driveway, the lights are on and he’s hit with another wave of memories from his childhood.

He’s definitely missed this place. But that still doesn’t stop his eyes from analysing the area, scanning into the darkness for danger. He wishes he could set his rifle up first. Watch the place from a safe distance for a few hours before even thinking of approaching. 

It’s too late to organise anything on that scale. 

So he parks in the driveway, and seizes the duffel bag full of weapons from the back seat, slinging it easily over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. He tucks his Glock into the back of his jeans (as safely as possible, there's no way in hell he's accidentally shooting himself in the ass) and prepares to launch into a very fake and unenthusiastic description of life on college campus. 

Whatever the hell college that is, he actually doesn't remember.

His father pulls him into a one armed hug after he knocks on the front door. The greeting is both overwhelming and familiar. He grins, pulling his dad in tighter as if to make sure he’s okay. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” his dad gasps, wheezing tightly. “You been hitting the gym lately or what?”

He quickly loosens his hold with an apologetic laugh. 

“Sorry Dad, just happy to see you.”

His dad drags him over the threshold, reaching helpfully for his duffel bag to carry it, but Stiles quickly pulls it out of reach. 

“I got this,” he says quickly. “Don’t wanna throw your back out, Dad.”

The Sheriff frowns. 

“You do know I have a gun and I can shoot you for that insult, right?”

Stiles resists the urge to laugh. You can try, he wants to say. He’s pretty sure his dad would be very surprised with the outcome if he did. 

“I’ll just put this in the guest room,” he says instead, ducking towards the staircase, and ignoring the gun comment because he’s pretty sure he has no idea how to respond to that. 

“Just cause you don’t live here anymore Stiles, doesn’t make your old room the guest room,” his dad says, and he rolls his eyes at him, but it’s still nice to know. 

He thinks he’ll be thirty one day and his dad will still consider it to be his room. It’s pretty awesome, though; to belong somewhere so unconditionally. Stiles kind of loves that about this house. 

And about his dad.

“Dinner’s on in half an hour,” his dad calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen, and Stiles can't help but smile because it’s like he never left. 

Stiles carries his duffel bag full of proverbial war zone party items up to his old bedroom and tries to let go of all the tension he’s been carrying in his shoulders since Derek called him. 

Once he dumps the bag, he goes outside and checks the perimeter. Twice. And then he sets up a few traps to alert him if anyone gets close to the house, hiding them well enough that his dad won’t accidentally come across them.

It’s linked up to his wireless receiver, so if anyone trips them it should warn him instantly that they're approaching the house, allowing a few extra minutes to plan an attack. If he needs it. 

It doesn’t take him very long and by the time he’s finished, the pizza his dad has heated up is already ready. He doesn’t comment on the obvious crack effort in the culinary skills department, because he’s too shattered by the drive to lecture his dad on his eating habits.

They eat pizza together and drink beer out on the front porch, and it’s really kind of great being home so much that he feels a little guilty that it took a pissed off hitman to make it happen. 

It’s comfortable, and they sit there in the darkness for a while, getting lost in it as they catch up on each others lives. He realises just how much he’s missed his dad, and he resolves to make more visits. If Derek doesn't end up killing him.

The lies only makes him feel a little guilty this time; the pros of seeing his dad again far outweigh the cons. He’ll just have to work on it. The lying. 

It’s strange not being with his dad. Actually being around him, taking care of him and making sure he looks after himself. He’d appointed himself as father protector since he was young, because he wasn’t so lucky the first time around in keeping both parents. 

His dad is the only one he has left. It’s funny, because being around his dad just makes him miss her more like he’s staring at a puzzle missing a significant piece. 

He makes a silent promise to visit her before he leaves. If he’s not dead before then. His dad doesn’t ask how long he’s staying and Stiles isn’t sure how to answer that anyway so he’s glad for the reprieve. 

“Not that I don’t love to see you son,” his dad says eventually, because he’s a parent and they just can’t let it be. “But is there a reason you’re here? Are you in trouble or something?”

Oh, the irony cannot be ignored. God, he doesn’t realise just how much trouble Stiles is in. He wants to laugh and yell at the same time. 

“Can’t I just visit my old man? Do I have to have a reason?” he counters, trying to deflect the question. 

His dad sees through the effort, and gives him a patient look like he knows Stiles will get to the point eventually- he just has to wait for it.

Stiles sighs. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, and technically it’s the truth. 'Okay' being the generalised version of alive and not murdered by his enemies. “I can’t really explain, Dad. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” his dad echoes, and slaps his hands over his thighs after a beat, climbing wearily to his feet. “Well, complicated can wait for tomorrow morning. I’m going to bed.”

“Night, Dad,” he mutters, quietly looking out into the darkness, and nursing the empty beer in his hand.

His dad pauses like he wants to say something. Add a little more to the conversation. They’re not usually very open with their feelings and it works for them, makes it easier to deal with the gaping hole in their family that’s been there for so long that it can never really be filled. 

So he’s pretty surprised when his father’s hand comes down on his shoulder and squeezes him gently. He tenses up instinctively, ready for a disarming manoeuvre because his body sees it as an attack before his brain catches up with him. 

He relaxes into it, and thankfully doesn’t judo slam his dad onto the front porch. Because that would lead to a lot of awkward questions. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” his dad mutters, and after another squeeze, drifts back into the house. 

Stiles sits there thoughtfully for a long time, before it gets much, much later and he needs to sleep eventually, so he goes back inside as well. He drops the beer bottle in the recycling and then climbs the staircase, pulling out the receiver for the perimeter alarms and checking them as he walks. 

He has this suspicious feeling like he’s missing something and enters his old bedroom with his head lowered like his guard might be down, absorbed by the technology. 

He has a brief moment to wonder if it’s faulty before his peripheral vision catches onto a figure lunging for him. He twists fluidly out of reach, dropping the receiver and withdrawing the Glock from the back of his jeans in one movement. Eyes widening, as Derek rushes him again before he can get a shot off. 

He smashes into Stiles like a wall of bricks. Large hands wrapping around his chest as he knocks the gun away. Disarming him smoothly. Expertly.

Stiles swears, as Derek tries to restrain him in a crushing bear hug, using his muscle to latch on and wring the air right out of him. 

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps, as he nearly crushes his ribs into dust.

He feels Derek’s hot breath against his ear and holy God, this should not be turning him on right now because he’s about to fucking die. 

“Told you I’d find you,” he growls into his ear. 

And Stiles does not whimper. Nope. Whimpering is not for those who have killed hundreds of people without blinking.

It’s a reflex when his wrists jerk up to jab Derek in the kidneys. The crushing hold loosens enough for Stiles to push at his chest forcing Derek back. He retrieves a knife hidden in his boot and advances at the same time Derek recovers and rushes him again.

“You’re in my house,” Stiles snaps, as they dance around each other, slashing at him with the blade. “You are on my list, dude.”

Derek drops below his guard, but Stiles is only feinting and punches Derek in the jaw, slashing at his chest with his other hand, but Derek is damn fast and he moves away so that Stiles only tears fabric. 

And as the fabric rips away and exposes the ridges of rippling abs, Stiles is completely distracted by naked skin. It’s a very welcome sight, but Derek is able to disarm him again because of it.

Stiles blinks, and leaps towards him, tackling Derek, and the sound of their struggle increases as they crash explosively onto the bed. He gets his fingers around Derek’s throat, straddling his chest and trying to pin him with his legs. 

But Derek just bucks underneath him, and Stiles is very much reminded of the fact that a very hot, half naked dude is underneath him on a bed, and he’s jerking his hips up in the direction of Stiles’ happy area.

Jesus. Derek’s movements throw him off his chest, and his hold on his neck is ripped away before he can even start constricting his air supply. 

And suddenly the shoe’s on the other foot, and Stiles is being pressed into the mattress by a very attractive, half naked man who looks like he wants to rip his throat out. Stiles manages to elbow him in said throat and push at his arm so that it bends, overbalancing him.

Their legs tangle together as they roll all over the bed, and the fabric of Derek’s shirt rips further, exposing more flesh. Stiles is so distracted between trying not to die and pop an awkward boner, that he doesn’t notice his dad crash into the room.

“Stiles, what the hell…?!”

They stop fighting immediately, surprised at the interruption. But his dad, hovering in the doorway and dressed only in the boxers Stiles bought as a gag last Christmas that say HOTT STUFF in blazing bright pink letters, is enough to distract anyone from who they’re trying to kill. Or dry hump. 

Stiles' mouth kind of falls open because he has no way of explaining this. Somehow, he’s ended up on top of Derek again, pinning his wrists over his head as he hovers over him, and Derek is practically naked and everything looks so much more suggestible when they’re on a bed. 

On top of each other. In a very compromising position. Without all of the weapons present. 

God, he hopes he finds his Glock and hunting knife before his dad does.

“Who the hell is this?” he father demands, in his authority voice, but the effect is painfully lessened by his outfit. 

He looks pretty ridiculous at the moment. Stiles can’t believe he actually wore the boxers. He'd be kind of touched, if he wasn't trying to stop himself from laughing.

“Uh, this is Derek,” he says finally, and he can feel the heat of Derek’s body everywhere. 

It's sort of driving him crazy, so he releases his wrists and climbs awkwardly off of him. He’s close enough to smell and to notice that Derek smells freaking amazing and it’s so unfair. The universe hates him. 

“He’s uh, my…”

“Yes?” his father asks, looking seriously pissed and on his final nerve. 

Stiles doesn’t want to think of the many different ways Derek could kill his father right now. Because he has to know the way to hurt Stiles, is to hurt the guy he drove eleven hours just to check on and make certain is safe, only hours after Derek had threatened him.

“Boyfriend,” Derek cuts in, and Stiles nearly snaps his neck, he twists it so fast in his direction. _What? _Did he seriously just-__

“Derek Hale.”

He even offers his hand out to shake as if it’s totally normal to introduce yourself to the father of the guy you’re trying to kill. His dad looks down at his hand and Stiles recognises that Derek’s impressed him with the gesture. 

He steps forward to shake his hand and that’s when Stiles spots his Glock lying right near Derek’s feet. Oh, shit.

“Listen, Dad,” he rushes, jerking in between them because he doesn’t want an ALPHA anywhere near his dad, let alone shaking hands in greeting when there are so many weapons in his room. 

Weapons that will kill him, easy as pie. “We’re sorry we woke you. I’ll show Derek out.”

His dad scoffs, and Stiles sees his stubborn expression which basically means they’re screwed. Holy shit balls, this is not looking good. 

“You mean, because he came through the window. Both of you downstairs, now. We’re going to have a little talk before Mr Hale goes home and returns at a more reasonable hour.”

Derek manages to look contrite which is ridiculous, because here’s his dad lecturing a ruthless killer on house rules and boyfriend etiquette and how the hell has this happened? It has to be some kind of nightmare. 

His dad doesn’t leave them alone together because he’s not a moron and instead waits patiently for them to walk out ahead of him, even going as far as to gesture helpfully at the open doorway. 

Stiles feels like a horny teenager caught making out in his bedroom and swallows the tension settling uncomfortably in his gut, trying to ignore the fact that Derek is here to kill him, but apparently the only way to do that is by telling his father they're dating. 

Jesus. Derek even has the nerve to curl a hand around Stiles’ hip as he moves towards the door. The touch seems comforting, and a little possessive and Stiles tenses, but doesn’t pull away because he can feel his dad’s eyes on them. 

The touch burns into him and he knows without a doubt he really needs to get laid ASAP.

It’s dead silent as they walk downstairs into the kitchen and Stiles is just waiting for Derek to make his move, taut in preparation to dive in front of his father when he pulls out a weapon. 

Although, Stiles has never actually seen him with a weapon before, so he has no idea what to expect. And that only makes him more agitated. 

His dad boils the kettle, and gestures for them both to take a seat across from the kitchen counter. Stiles can’t believe it when Derek actually slides into the chair without doing anything lethal. 

The Sheriff watches them both with narrowed eyes and Stiles just knows he’s going to figure out somehow that what they’re saying is complete and utter bullshit.

“I think I know what’s going on here,” his dad says as if he wants Stiles to suffer cardiac arrest, because that’s what it feels like is happening right now.

Derek glances in Stiles direction and they share a brief look, though he has no idea what it means. Is Derek still trying to kill him? Or is he just lying in wait to kill his father in front of him, thereby shattering Stiles' soul before he finishes him off as well? What the hell is going on?

“Uh, dad…” 

He has no idea what he’s going to say, but his dad waves him into silence, saving him from the attempt. 

“I know you were planning on introducing me to Derek and that’s why you drove here to visit. You guys must be pretty serious, if it’s the first time I’m hearing about it.”

He gives Stiles a pointed look and he knows he’s going to get lectured for not telling his father about his fake boyfriend sooner. 

Stiles wants to die of embarrassment. He’s considering letting Derek put him out of his misery. This’ll be one to tell the kids.

“It is serious,” Derek admits to Stiles’ utter shock, turning to look at him with burning eyes. “Deadly serious.”

And God, even Stiles can read between the lines there. He looks to see his father’s reaction to that and he’s surprised again by the impressed look on his face. Derek seems to be charming the pants off of him. Stiles can't even understand how that's possible right now. 

God, could this situation get any worse? The kettle clicks off, and his father pours himself a cup of tea with a casualness that makes him want to empty bullets into something. This has to be an alternate universe situation. Stiles will not accept this as reality.

“Well, good. But maybe next time keep it out of my house or at least learn to be quiet when you-”

Stiles squeaks out a protest, but his dad is completely unashamed of what he’s just said and kind of stares him down instead. Derek only nods, looking solemn and properly chastised. A big ALPHA hotshot assassin properly chastised by an old man. Now that's a sight to see. Stiles can't quite believe it. 

This has to be the twilight zone or something. It cannot be real. He must be in the matrix. Time to wake up.

“We will, sir,” he promises, and Stiles cannot figure out what the hell he is doing right now. 

Is he trying to ruin Stiles’ life first before he kills him? It’s a reasonable tactic as strategies go. It's has a super villainesque feeling to it that Stiles appreciates.

“Alright, well now that's done. Derek, would you like to stay tonight?”

“Dad!” Stiles protests because Jesus, now he’s inviting _killer _Derek for a sleepover.__

__Has he lost his mind? His father only looks amused._ _

“Stiles, you’re twenty two years old. I’m under no illusions that you two don't sleep in the same bed.”

Derek doesn’t even seem affected by this offer and sits there in Stiles’ kitchen with permission from Stiles’ dad to get freaky with his son under his roof- and he’s calm as a freaking cucumber. Sweet merciful Lord.

“Thank you, sir, but I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he admits, rising from his seat and Stiles can’t stop looking at him because he cannot figure out what the hell Derek- killer ALPHA Derek- is thinking.

“Dinner tomorrow six sharp,” his dad says as they walk Derek towards the front door. “You’ll be there. I’d like the chance to get to know the man Stiles is sneaking into his room at unreasonable hours.”

Stiles can actually feel his face heat up, because now his dad is inviting Derek back into their house again for a family dinner and Jesus, how the hell are they meant to keep this charade up? And for how long? How is he meant to explain when Derek suddenly up and dies?

“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Derek says, and Stiles knows it’s just another dig at him, proving how much he knows about his life. 

And how easily the information could be found.

Stiles cannot believe this is happening right now. And then Derek is dragging Stiles by the front of his shirt towards him, and pushing his lips onto Stiles’ open mouth. 

He's so surprised by the sudden chaste kiss that he doesn’t even try to push away. Derek pulls back first, and there’s a hidden, darker meaning in his gaze that makes him extremely nervous.

“See you soon, Stiles,” he mutters, releasing him and with a curt nod in his father’s direction, he’s waltzing out the front door like it’s perfectly okay to kiss the people you’re trying to kill and then strut off into the distance.

Stiles just kind of stands there helplessly, watching Derek’s fine disappearing form- particularly, his ass- as he walks off towards his parked car. It’s a Camaro and for some reason that seems fitting. 

It’s very Derek, he realises.

“Someone’s a little whipped,” his father says, and Stiles finally remembers he’s still there and oh God, he just watched Derek kiss him like it was no big deal. Stiles has never seen him so pro-boyfriend before.

Although, he’s never actually had a relationship serious enough- with a person that he trusts enough- to let them anywhere near his dad. So, maybe he’s just making up for lost time.

“What?” he demands, dragging his gaze away from Derek as he disappears into his car. 

He’s distantly aware that his fingers are pressed lightly against his lips as if they’re chasing the sensation of Derek’s mouth and he hastily withdraws them, curling them into a fist instead.

“You guys really are serious, aren’t you?”

He’s distracted by the turn of events. The fact that the perimeter alarms didn’t go off and that Derek managed to sneak up on him. Or that his dad interrupted them trying to kill each other, scolded them, and invited Derek back over for dinner.

Holy shit, this is going to cause so many complications, especially when Stiles plunges a steak knife into Derek’s heart at the dinner table tomorrow night. He has to be in an alternate reality, nothing else this ridiculous happens in the real world. 

His face is flushed, probably from the stress of the last few minutes, and nothing to do with the fact that he was wrestling a half naked man on his bed or being kissed by him several minutes later.

Jesus, how is this his life now?

“Yeah, Dad,” he says finally, because there’s no point trying to explain what’s really going on without revealing his questionable career choices. “We are.”

Oh God, and apparently his satisfactory taste in men, according to his father. Derek actually kissed him. On the mouth. In front of his dad, like they'd been dating for months and it was perfectly alright to do this sort of thing.

But even Stiles can recognise the kiss of death when it's pressing firmly against his lips.

  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t sleep all night. Mostly because he’s waiting for Derek to return for round three and also because he can’t stop thinking. Obviously, Derek knows how to get past the early warning system Stiles installed around the house, so there’s no saying when he might strike. 

He doesn’t come back though, but it doesn’t matter because Stiles spends the rest of the evening assembling the plastic explosive into something he’s clearly going to need to use very soon.

When morning comes around and Stiles has cooked his father an non-greasy breakfast- much to his unhappiness- he’s still kind of reeling from the night before. He offers to go to the supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner as a distraction whilst his dad heads into work. 

But he doesn’t leave before he’s retrieved enough plastic explosion to make a very big statement. Something sort of along the lines of _Here’s my response to your kiss of death, buddy. How do you like that? ___

Stiles is good at what he does and by the time he makes it to the supermarket, the plastic explosive is right where he wants it- nowhere near where it can blow up in his face.

He’s expecting it, of course. But by the time Stiles has actually made it into the store after being stopped left right and centre by familiar faces that want to talk to him and see how he’s enjoying college and what else he’s doing with his life, it's well past midday.

He doesn’t mind. These people he’s lived with his entire life, so they’re almost like family, only twice removed. It’s just a lot harder to have fake discussions about his fake life when he’s out in the open, feeling much more exposed and paranoid. Let alone, the knowledge that Derek’s in town and just standing around is way too easy a method for getting Stiles killed.

He’s right about that too, because only five minutes after excusing himself from a very loud conversation with the elderly Mrs Hicks (her hearing may as well be non-existent) and barely picking up the lasagne sheets, Derek finds him in the dairy products. 

Figures. 

Stiles immediately points to the nearby camera as Derek advances on him, expressing a lack of concern at the approach. Derek slows, but doesn't stop. Not until he’s right in front of Stiles and in his space. 

They look way too intimate for polite conversation, but he doesn’t care. He’s prepared for Derek this time and feeling confident about it.

“You really want to do this right now? In front of so many witnesses and cameras?” he demands, watching as Derek’s face transforms into a scowl. "And are you clinically insane telling my father we're _dating? _"__

“Only reasonable explanation," he says with a shrug. "Besides, we have a score to settle.” 

Stiles actually laughs, and Derek growls low and guttural in his throat, and once again he's reminded of those red eyes he saw the first time they met. 

“In the supermarket?” he asks. “What are you going to do, smother me with cheese?”

“You’re kidding,” someone else says, and they both step quickly away from each other like they’ve been caught doing something wrong. 

It’s instinctive after last night. If they remain standing so closely together, people will talk. And those people will start talking to his dad. Although, it won't really matter now since he's already well aware of their fake love affair.

The person who spoke is this curly haired kid, and he stands close to Derek as if he’s making a statement about it. He’s young, probably around Stiles' age, but he recognises him immediately. Isaac Lahey. Another ALPHA. Fucking fantastic. And suddenly that makes him furious.

“This is meant to be between you and me. What the fuck's the ALPHA here for?”

For once, Derek looks as pissed as Stiles, and frowns at Isaac. 

“I thought I said you didn’t need to be here.”

Isaac completely ignores him. He’s too busy looking at Stiles, eyeing him up and considering him in an analysing way. His eyebrows go way up. “This is the guy that got the drop on you?” he asks, incredulous. “That got away from you without a scratch? He looks younger than me.”

Stiles folds his arms, offended. 

“Age, is but a number,” he says. “And I’d don’t really want to brag, but my numbers are pretty damn good.”

Lahey isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what type of numbers Stiles is referring to. 

“Stiles, right?” he says. “I’ve heard about you.”

Stiles really isn’t in the mood for a chat. Not if he’s being fucking ganged up on by two ALPHA’s. This is such a boy's locker room situation, it's painful. He’s not too concerned, though. 

It’s too public for them to risk exposing themselves, but it still pisses him off. It’s underhanded and shitty, like cheating. And Stiles doesn’t like that at all. 

“This is a load of bullshit, you know,” he says. “ALPHA and ABOM-nation agreed to stay out of it. So, I think it’s only fair that this happens.”

Derek immediately frowns, like he knows Stiles well enough to understand exactly what he’s talking about. Isaac looks confused and turns to his other jockstrap ALPHA buddy for explanation. 

Mrs Hicks wanders past at the end of the aisle and glances curiously in their direction, but her eyesight sucks too, so after a pause, she keeps walking. Derek steps towards him again, hands outstretched like he wants to grab onto him and shake him to death. 

Stiles doesn’t move, stands his ground and smiles. 

“Stiles,” Derek begins, just as an explosion goes off outside. 

The ground shakes and the glass windows rattle dangerously. People begin to scream.

Stiles is the only one who doesn’t flinch, which is sort of the biggest dead giveaway that has ever existed. He doesn’t care. He’s angry and resenting the fact that he wasn’t really going in for the kill. Otherwise, the timer would have been shorter and Derek- and probably Isaac, too- would be dead. 

Collateral damage. He can’t be blamed if Isaac has willingly gotten himself involved. At least, that’s what he’ll argue to Lydia before she throws a stapler at his head. Or Finstock pops a blood vessel. 

Finding Derek's car in a town this size, is child's play. And attaching the bomb took three seconds tops. ALPHA's don't pay as much attention as people think. Derek whips his head back and forth between Stiles and the parking lot, finally beginning to cotton on to what’s happening. 

He tries not to appear too smug about it, but Derek really shouldn't have messed with him. Now he's going to pay the price.

“Oh, no,” Stiles says, feigning innocence. “Is that your car? Might wanna get that checked out.”

Isaac actually laughs, and Stiles is beginning to like this one so maybe he won't kill him after all. Not every ALPHA might be a total douchebag. But Stiles is going to need more evidence to be sure. Derek looks absolutely livid which is his cue to leave.

“See you at dinner, honey,” he says and then because he’s trying to get himself murdered, he blows a kiss in Derek’s direction before he grabs milk and cheese, and waltzes out of the supermarket.

But not before paying for his items, leaving some money on the unmanned checkouts. God, he’s not an animal. 

Though, it’s certainly debatable when he passes the giant flame ball that is now Derek’s Camaro. A plume of smoke rising above the burning wreckage behind him as he casually walks towards his jeep, ignoring the panicking crowd. 

He can see the ALPHA's in his rear vision mirror as he drives away. And suddenly using nearly all of his plastic explosive is totally worth it.

Because he’s got to admit, that the expression on Derek's face is kind of priceless. 

  
  
  



	3. This Heart Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at the Stilinski's with two on edge assassins trying to kill each other. What could possibly go wrong?

# This Heart Attack

#    


As soon as Stiles arrives home, he decides it’s time to bring in the cavalry. The cavalry being, certain trustworthy individuals from ABOM-nation who are very good at killing away Stiles' problems. Or helping him kill them. 

Derek’s already broken the rules, so basically everything he wasn’t allowed to do before is fair game. And there are a lot of things that he wasn’t allowed to do. It almost makes Derek bringing in another ALPHA worth it. Because Stiles really isn’t in the mood to play fair right now. 

He locates his work cell on the floor of his jeep, and presses his speed dial, stepping out of the car.

“Stiles?” Scott’s groggy voice slurs over the phone, heavy with sleep, and Stiles is too angry to feel guilty for waking him.

“Scotty, you know that favour you owed me?” he says evenly, surprised at the calmness in his voice as he twirls his hunting knife in his other hand. “I’m calling it in now.”

Scott seems to wake up enough to realise what he’s talking about. “But Finstock said to leave it between you guys to sort out.”

Stiles flings his hunting knife into a nearby tree, imagining it’s Derek’s face and smiles grimly, because of course Scott would have something against breaking Finstock’s rules. 

“Yeah, that was until he brought another ALPHA into the attempt at conflict resolution.”

“Fuck,” Scott says, and Stiles listens to the sound of him rolling out of bed and the rustling of fabric as he quickly throws his clothes on. 

He hesitates, because although they’ve worked together for a while, and Stiles trusts Scott more than he trust any other assassin at ABOM-nation, he’s never introduced him to his father. 

Scott only knows the general area that his dad lives in, but nothing else, because Stiles is too determined to never let those worlds collide. And look at him now. Fuck.

“I need you in Beacon Hills, buddy,” he finally admits. 

And then proceeds to rattle off the address he’s kept closer to the vest than his porn collection. Scott seems to realise the seriousness of the situation, and doesn’t comment.

“I can handle them both,” Stiles continues. “But I don’t know if he’s bringing more ALPHA’s. Dude, it’s fucked. He’s coming over for dinner in a couple hours.”

He hears the sound of Scott stubbing his toe for the billionth time, on his weird attempt at feng shui, coffee table, that may as well be shaped like the death star or something its so impractical. 

Stiles rolls his eyes as Scott swears vehemently, but he thinks it has more to do with his foot than Stiles’ shitty circumstances. 

Some friend.

“How the fuck is he coming over for dinner?” Scott demands. “Are you really taking Lydia’s advice to fuck it better?”

Stiles laughs hollowly, and ignores the urge to admit how freaking fantastic that sounds right about now. 

“My dad caught us in a compromising position, and now thinks that we’re dating,” he explains.

Scott is speechless for a moment, and Stiles lets out another dry laugh. 

“It’s an eleven hour drive. You’d better leave now if you wanna be here for all the excitement.”

“I’ll be there in eight,” Scott promises, which definitely means highway patrol is going to have an interesting night and then he hangs up. 

Stiles sighs, and puts the cell away in his pocket as he walks over to yank the hunting knife out of the tree with an unreasonable amount of force, because taking all of his rage out on a helpless tree is strangely therapeutic.

He tucks it away and goes to retrieve the groceries from the backseat of his jeep, like a normal college student home to visit his dad on the weekends and cook him lasagne. 

It’s got to be the most depressing thing since ABOM-nation stopped letting him use explosives to kill targets after the subway explosion of 09. 

He’d been on one of his first contracts in Saint Petersburg, and hadn’t quite realised ABOM-nation is all about subtlety, and not the killing-people-at-any-cost approach to assassination. Easy mistake to make. 

Which is why he can expect a phone call in the next twenty or so minutes in the aftermath of the recent Camaro explosion.

And then it’s like he’s freaking Madame Zelda or something, because his cell phone starts ringing again just after he starts preheating the oven. He answers it one handed as he drags the lasagne dish out of the cupboard. 

“Stiles!” Finstock barks into his ear. “There better be an explanation for that exploding car stunt you pulled today. There was a fucking kid at the supermarket who filmed the detonation on his iPhone, and posted it on YouTube! It went viral five fucking minutes ago! The guys in IT are still trying to remove it!”

Stiles winces, because that’s got to be the highest level of cock up that he’s ever performed before. Even worse than the explosion 09. And all because Derek happens to be unfairly sexy, and possibly flirting with him. 

The extremely distant possibility of hate sex is throwing him off his game. It’s definitely a new low. And now he sort of wants to kick himself for wasting the golden opportunity to blow Derek sky high. And for not pulling that trigger in New York. 

Jesus, that’s two opportunities to kill an ALPHA that Stiles has passed up. What the hell is he doing?

“Another ALPHA is on the scene,” he explains, calmly. “Things got a little heated.”

Finstock doesn’t seem too appeased by this explanation. But in all fairness, Finstock's never happy with anything so Stiles is hardly shaking things up here. 

“Fix it. This is not the Saint Petersburg explosion of 09. We don’t want anymore attention, so don’t fuck up again.”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but Finstock has already hung up. And that’s just fucking A. Really, Stiles wants to thank Finstock for his exceptional advice by putting a bullet of gratitude in his brain. Instead, he fumes silently, and resolves to exact his revenge at the annual Christmas party. Oh yeah, Finstock is definitely gonna regret that phone call.

He unpacks the groceries quickly, considering how he’s going to handle tonight as he does it. And whilst also thinking, he’s the dumbest piece of shit for not removing Derek from the equation when he’s had so many opportunities. But he’s smart enough to realise exactly why he didn’t go in for the kill. 

Stiles had been showing off. Trying to impress Derek, which is definitely not the way to assassinate someone. 

Not even remotely the way to assassinate someone. Oh, God. He’s seriously crushing on this guy right now. That’s why he didn’t kill him. Fuck.

If he doesn’t get laid soon, he might try fucking Derek to death as an alternative. And that idea gets him so flustered that he disappears before getting started on the lasagne to furiously jerk himself off in the bathroom.

Oh, God. He needs an intervention like pronto. 

  
  
  
  
  
He’s tenser than a virgin in a moonlight orgy by the time dinner rolls around. His father comes in around a quarter to six, and Stiles is wound so tight he nearly buries his hunting knife right between his eyes when he strides unannounced through the front door.

“Dad!” he cries over-enthusiastically as he rushes to conceal the weapon again. 

The Sheriff doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s too busy getting his shoes off.

“Hey, Stiles,” he mutters, patting him on the shoulder in greeting as he sniffs the air. 

“Grub smells good,” he offers. “I’m gonna get myself presentable. You let Derek in when he gets here.”

Stiles smiles weakly, and resists the urge to deny the whole thing just to keep Derek as far away as possible. Especially, if more kisses and PDA might be on the table. He’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his cool if Derek gets handsy. Oh God, and with his father nearby.

“Sure thing, Dad,” he chokes out and then disappears into the kitchen to make sure everything’s ready, and by everything, he means the plan to get rid of Derek once and for all. 

Though to be clear, it’s not exactly a plan, more like a set of rules. Rule number one being: don’t let Derek discover he jerked off to thoughts of him in the bathroom. Because he believes that would be counterproductive, and highly embarrassing.

Derek is on time when he arrives. The sick motherfucker. Thank God, his father is there when he opens the door because he’s very certain he would have just lunged straight for his throat. Or judging by Derek’s seriously pissed expression, he might have moved first.

As Stiles spits out a greeting, Derek presses forward and slams his mouth over his in another ninja lips attack. 

A flash of pain jerks through him, before he realises that Derek’s bitten his lip in some small effort of retaliation for his car. He pulls away with his poker face and pretends nothing happened, although he can taste the blood in his mouth. Damn, Derek bit _hard. ___

“Hey, honey,” Derek growls, and Stiles knows straight away that this is not going to end well.

He moves too quickly for Stiles to react, reaching out and shaking his father’s hand in greeting before he can stop him.

His heart seems to seize in his chest as his dad smiles at his fake boyfriend, but to his shock Derek does nothing else. Just releases his father’s hand and steps away like he wasn’t just about to take his frustration out on Stiles’ father. 

And then- the fucking bastard- reaches out for Stiles’ hand, and intertwines their fingers together.

“I’m sorry about your car, Derek,” his father says, and Stiles feels the hand tighten on his own in a crushing grip as Derek pulls him into the dining room, following his father. 

“I’m not too good with mechanics, but I think you might need a new guy if your car explodes like that. If you're dating my son, I can’t have those kind of accidents threatening his life.”

His father’s back is to them as he speaks, so Stiles is able to jerk the thumb of his free hand into a pressure point in Derek’s wrist and the punishing grip loosens. 

"Of course," Derek agrees. Stiles is silent, because he won’t give Derek the satisfaction of acknowledging it, but the groan of pain seems like it should be necessary as he quietly flexes his fingers to check if anything is broken. 

It isn’t. So Derek really is just fucking with him. God, Stiles wants to put the hunting knife right between his eyes right about now.

But apparently, that’s not appropriate etiquette for the dinner table, and it’s bound to raise some questions from his dad. Plus, Finstock wants him to keep this low-key. 

As in dating each other low-key, until Derek mysteriously dies for no explained reason. If only he could have concealed some plastic explosive beneath Derek’s chair. Then the dinner would _really_ get interesting.

His father disappears into the kitchen as they take their seats, and Derek makes a point to sit right next to Stiles as if to keep an eye on him. It turns out immediately that his father leaving the room is a mistake. Stiles free hand comes up to his mouth, feeling the now tender area. 

“You fucking bit me!” he hisses under his breath. “You fucking asshole, stop kissing me!”

Derek’s grip starts tightening just as Stiles wrenches his hand free. 

“That’s what boyfriends do,” he spits back. “I’m just trying to help you keep your little secret. I’m sure your dad would love to hear what I’m really doing here.”

Stiles glares at him, and reaches for his knife but it’s gone. Derek grins at his confused expression, and waves at him with the hunting knife now within his grasp. 

“Is that the second knife I’ve taken from you now?”

God, he is slacking if he didn’t even notice Derek steal it. It's a good thing he decided not to bring his Glock to the dinner table. The smug expression on his face is enough reason for Stiles to punch Derek in the ribs as hard as he can in the limited space. 

Derek immediately hunches over and wheezes, winded by the blow, but his recovery time is unbelievable. In the span of a few seconds he's reaching for Stiles, eyes full of something he can’t identify. But it's not hard to miss that Derek intends to return the favour. 

“C’mon, baby,” he practically purrs, and Stiles heart instantly beats a little faster. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he growls, ignoring his reaction to their proximity or the way Derek’s voice suddenly sounds like sex. “You are going to die. Even if it fucking destroys me.”

“Pretty words from a pretty mouth,” Derek retorts, and Stiles is momentarily shocked by the compliment. “I’d like to see you try.”

Stiles actually laughs, because that is evidently what the growing tension between them needs right now. 

“I’m sorry, did you want to confer with you car about that? Oh, wait…”

Derek growls, hand reaching for his face just as his father re-enters the room. And then even worse, the bag of dicks _asshole_ turns it into a caress that burns as his fingers slide along his jaw. 

His touch is not gentle, and for some fucked up reason that makes Stiles hotter in his pants. He uses monk level of restraint in pushing away the memory of jerking off to Derek earlier, because once again, awkward boners in front of dangerous men are _not _the way to go. He succeeds. Barely. ____

“Dig in,” his dad commands, as he deposits the lasagne dish onto the centre of the table. “It’s still a little hot. I’d like to take credit, but the culinary display was made by Stiles tonight. My contribution of manly effort went into removing it from the oven.”

“The oven is fraught with danger,” Stiles agrees. “We thank you for your sacrifice.”

Derek actually snorts, and for a horrifying moment Stiles’ thinks he might actually be amused, but then his dad heaps a chunk of lasagne onto Derek’s plate and his expression hardens. Stiles knows exactly what he’s thinking and can’t resist adding, 

“Go on try some, Derek. It’s to _die _for.”__

He even goes as far as to hand Derek a fork, which he surprisingly takes instead of trying to stab Stiles in the eye with it. He doesn't make a move to start eating and stares at the food mistrustfully. 

God, as if he’d be shitty enough to poison Derek. Though, of course, he’s not above making him believe he has. Stiles sniggers under his breath, and purposefully resists eating after his dad serves him some, just to preserve the idea a little longer.

Derek tenses like he heard his laughter, sending a fake smile in his direction and Stiles grins at the constipated expression. Poison is a shitty way to kill somebody. Besides, it’s traditionally a woman’s way of ending someone’s life, and Stiles prefers sniper rifles and explosives. Lots of explosives. 

But apparently, Derek doesn’t seem to think he does, and waits for Stiles' father to start eating before he tries any of the food. Stiles finds his paranoia hilarious and makes a point of enhancing it. Derek is not amused.

“So,” his fathers says eventually, oblivious to the pissing contest going on right beneath his nose. “How did you two meet?”

Well, shit. He and Derek both exchange slightly panicked looks. How the hell hadn’t he taken the time to think of a believable lie?

“Through friends,” he answers quickly. “From college, which I attend frequently.”

Ugh. God, he really sucks at lying. Derek actually rolls his eyes at him. 

“His best friend, Scott introduced us,” Derek says easily, and Stiles is startled he knows about Scott which obviously is Derek’s intention. “I’ve only ever seen Stiles on campus, because we don’t share any classes.” 

His dad chews thoughtfully, but Stiles knows he bought it and seriously is that really craptastic that he's actually grateful Derek is such a stone cold liar? Jesus, he doesn’t even break a sweat when he does it. Stiles is only okay with this when it’s working in his favour.

“And what course are you studying?”

Shit. Stiles has an internal meltdown while Derek smiles. 

“I’m studying to be a veterinarian. I’ve always had a way with animals.”

Stiles stares at him like he’s grown two heads, because assassins generally aren’t meant to like cute and fluffy animals let alone admit to not killing them whenever they cross paths. And the fact that Derek is using that metaphoric trope, is enough for Stiles to really start considering his life choices. 

Instead, he eats his food in silence, and tries to quickly think of a subject change. His dad beats him to it. 

“And how long have you two been dating?” he asks, eyeing them over the lasagne dish.

Stiles sort of has an epiphany moment where he can kind of see his entire life flashing before his eyes, but from an out of body vantage point where he is tempted to slap his own self repeatedly. It does not look good. 

“Six months,” he says, before Derek can speak. “Dad, do you really have to do the interrogation thing?”

His dad only smiles innocently in his direction. 

“I don’t have to do anything, Stiles. It’s just that this gives me no greater joy in life. So Derek, have you been tested for any STD’s before you became sexually active with my son?”

Derek actually chokes on the food he’s swallowing. Stiles looks at his father in abject horror, but makes no effort to thump Derek on the back or attempt a Heimlich manoeuvre. 

Apparently, Derek is pretty alright killing himself before Stiles makes any more attempts at it. After a pause Derek finally manages to clear his airway, unfortunately, and regard his father with utmost seriousness. Stiles has a bad ju ju feeling. 

“I’m clean, I have a naturally high immune system, and we always use protection.”

Stiles spits out the water he gulped down, face heating up as his dad chortles in amusement at Derek’s lack of embarrassment. 

“Oh my God,” he gasps, wiping his mouth and shooting Derek a dirty look, but he merely stares back expressionlessly, not even fazed by what he just said.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, I’ll give you that,” his father says with a grin. “Let’s see if we can…”

Stiles breaks out in an instant cold sweat. Oh, dear God, no.

“Dad, please,” he begs, but his father is having none of it, and moves his plate out of the way as if expecting it to be flung if it remains there for much longer. 

He regards Derek over the table, hands beneath his chin and eyes narrowing rapidly. Derek calmly places his fork onto the plate, and stares back like he's bravely accepting the challenge. 

Stiles wants to die. He’ll grab the knife back off Derek and stab himself, if that will stop this from happening. But Derek leans forward, and out of his range like he senses this.

“Criminal record?” Sheriff demands.

“Juvenile. Sealed when I turned eighteen.”

“Booze?”

“High tolerance. Never been drunk.”

“Drugs?”

“Never.”

“Cheater?”

“No.”

“Ever hit a woman?”

“No.”

“A man?”

“Yes.”

“Baby?”

Derek barks out what Stiles can only describe as unrestrained laughter. 

“No.”

“Do you like kids?”

“Yes.”

”Ever worn women’s clothing?”

“No.”

“Been a porn star?”

“No.”

“Rage issues?”

“Under control.”

“How many sexual partners have you had?”

Stiles winces but Derek doesn’t even blink. “Three.”

“What colour is your underwear?”

Fuck. That’s it. Stiles buries his face into his hands but Derek still replies. 

“Black.”

“Disturbing sexual perversions?”

Derek has the gall to smirk. “Stiles never complains.”

Oh, God. He wants to curl up in a ball and die as soon as it’s convenient, because now he’s referring to their fake sex life, and these are things that are not okay. 

And if Stiles is going to say he’s had sex with Derek, the only decent thing to do is to actually bang him. He's polite like that. 

“When a person says no…?” his father pushes, and Stiles cannot believe that he’s trying to find out if Derek is a closet rapist or something. Jesus.

“They mean no.”

His father pauses, and Stiles prays that that’s the end of it. God, please let it be the end. He cannot take any more humiliation in one evening. 

“What’s your deepest darkest secret?” his father asks, finally.

Stiles sits up straighter for this one, curious. Derek doesn’t even seem rattled by the probing and very personal questions.

“I knit,” he says, deadpan. 

His father laughs, and finally ends his million question interrogation/torture session. Stiles wants to weep, and brain himself on the dining table in gratitude.

“I hate you,” he cries, hiding his face again.

His father laughs. “Aw, c’mon Stiles, this is the first boyfriend you’ve ever brought home. I’ve got to milk it for all it’s worth.”

He grumbles out something unintelligible, but nearly jumps a foot in the air when Derek’s warm hand comes over the back of his exposed neck. Stiles tenses, ready to defend if he needs to, not liking Derek holding onto such a vulnerable area. It’s so very easy to break someone’s neck if you know how.

And Derek definitely knows how. He’s just about to do something about it when a thumb breaks away, sliding across almost soothingly and burning a trail on his skin. 

He stills, heart thumping away, more affected by the touch than the threat of danger, because Derek is apparently stroking his neck. And he is very much enjoying it.

“Dessert?” his father asks, and Derek finally removes his hand to Stiles’ growing bewilderment. 

He raises his head from beneath his hands and scowls at his father. “You are a terrible parent. You get no dessert.”

His father recognises his no-way-in-hell face and sighs in defeat. 

“Beer then?”

Derek says yes, and Stiles nods as his dad disappears again. They sit in silence for a while, and Stiles is trying to figure out why something feels strange about this before he realises that they’ve been sitting there alone for a several life ending seconds, and neither of them are attempting to kill each other. Oh. 

And the residual affect of that is, apparently, extreme awkwardness. Because Derek got grilled by his father whilst Stiles suffered death by embarrassment and then he stroked his neck apologetically like a good, doting boyfriend.

Was this his way of calling a truce? This is so bizarre bat shit crazy that he has no idea what to do. Before he can comment though, his dad returns with beer to drown their apparent and sudden discomfort in. When he hands the beer to Derek, he even reaches down to clap him on the shoulder in the affectionate way he always does constantly to Stiles. 

The gesture shocks him. He can’t believe his father has let Derek into their lives so easily, so accepting.

“Here you go kid, you earned it,” he says with a laugh Stiles can only describe as laced with pure evil. “This one’s a keeper, Stiles.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Derek says, and then practically guzzles the whole thing as if he’s in need of an escape himself. 

He may say he can’t get drunk, but apparently it’s not for lack of trying. Stiles takes an excessive gulp himself. Dining with potential fake in-laws is more high stress that killing people is. Hands down. No contest. He’s pretty sure his dad might have traumatised Derek permanently, which is sort of not okay when that’s meant to be his job before he kills him to death and all. 

“You’re not eating cheeseburgers for a month,” Stiles says to his father. “I’ll stay here for that long if I have to and make sure you don’t.”

His father’s expression turns grim. Stiles would go as far as to think he goes a little paler, too. Good. He is so in the doghouse right now. Stiles knows now why he never visits him. It’s because he’s the anti-christ. Or at least, possesses some satanic qualities.

“I have a gun,” his father retorts, and Derek freezes as if he expects him to brandish it at the dining table which is a reasonable thought process given the state of his father’s mental health. 

Stiles doesn’t react. He is unfortunately, very familiar with this method of threat. And it’s an empty one. His father will no sooner use his gun on Stiles, then Derek will actually agree to fucking their disagreement away. 

“What are you gonna do with it? Shoot away the high cholesterol? Good luck with that, Dad. Let me know how it goes.”

His father almost pouts. “Fine. I’ll leave your boyfriend alone, even though he passed the test,” he turns to Derek. “You’re very calm, have you had interrogation training before?”

Derek’s takes a final gulp of his beer, and shakes his head. “I have a sister,” he says as if that explains everything, which it kind of does. Although, Stiles is not exactly sure he’s telling the truth. Derek also told his father he wanted to be a veterinarian, maybe he has a fake sister, too. Fucked, if he knows up from down right now.

His father’s expression turns empathetic. “You poor soul,” he says, and Stiles is suddenly reminded of Aunt Tess and what she does to his father during Christmas get togethers and shudders.

A booming crash outside interrupts the strangely comfortable silence, and Derek and Stiles jerk out of their seats in the second it takes for his father to raise his beer to his lips. 

His dad glances around and says stupidly, “Where’s the fire?”

Stiles is immediately on guard as he follows Derek towards the front door. 

“What the hell is this?” he demands as he hears his dad scramble to follow them.

“You tell me,” Derek snaps, and wrenches the front door open. Stiles keeps his distance from Derek, and whatever companionable feeling that had settled over them before is gone. Just like that, it’s back to hating and murdering and et cetera. Oh joy.

He spots two individuals brawling in the front garden, and he thinks with dread that the rest of the ALPHA’s are finally here, but when one of them swears loudly and unrestrained, he recognises the voice. And then, he laughs. He pushes past Derek and strides outside to meet them. 

“Scott?” he asks, incredulous, as his father ushers Derek outside after him and they both follow to watch the spectacle that is his idiot best friend wrestling Isaac on the grass- who no doubt followed Derek to make sure Stiles didn’t kill him. God.

“Isaac,” Derek growls, and his tone is all warning, alpha male you’re-in-deep-shit, kid as he approaches them.

Scott and Isaac don’t separate immediately like Derek and Stiles did when they were caught, but they do stop fighting which is a plus. He's not sure how he would've explained one of them dying to his father. It's a little late in the evening for a bloodbath. 

Stiles recognises the glint of steel in the light of the nearly full moon for what it is. He just hopes his dad doesn’t too.

“Scott, your best friend, Scott?” his dad guesses. “Are they dating as well?”

“No!” Stiles replies quickly, not willing to condemn more people to the horror of fake dating around his father. “They’re just friends, and they haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, and to his and Stiles’ immense surprise, Isaac offers him a hand when he climbs to his feet. 

Scott looks at it warily for a second, before accepting the peace offering and then they’re standing side by side like it’s the most normal thing in the world. What the hell. It's like his universe is falling apart.

Stiles cannot believe that not only are ALPHA and ABOM-nation fake dating but they are also apparently becoming friends, too. The world must be ending. Apocalypse now.

“Sorry,” Isaac says and he sounds sincere, plus his curls make him seem more innocent. And then Scott’s puppy dog eyes-of-apology go in for the kill. Turns out, they make a formidable pair. “We got a bit carried away.”

His father doesn’t seem to care that much, probably because he’s become desensitised to men rolling around almost naked on his property. 

“You should have seen these two the other night,” the Sheriff says as he points at the both of them, and Stiles wants to kill him because his father can’t resist twisting the knife in. 

“I thought I’d walked into amateur pornography.”

Stiles makes an inhuman screech of denial, as Derek clears his throat. 

“I think I’d better take Isaac back,” he says, but before he takes a step of blissful escape, his father seizes the back of Derek’s shirt. 

Stiles wonders distantly, if he actually is trying to get himself killed. Yeah Dad, manhandle the psychotic assassin. Great plan. 

“Not just yet,” he says, because as Stiles is now well aware he is evil and out to ruin his life. “I haven’t even been introduced to them both. All of you, inside.”

Isaac ducks his head in an effort to appear contrite and Scott just grins like he’s been given the best gift ever and follows Stiles’ dad eagerly, Isaac by his side. Which just leaves Derek and him alone. 

“You’d better bring your lying A game,” he says. “Because it’s your fault they’re here.”

Derek snorts. “Why, because your lying sucks?”

And yep, Stiles is super offended, and Derek should probably die now, please and thank you. 

“And it’s not my fault they’re here,” Derek adds. “I didn’t call Isaac and tell him to come, though I bet you called Scott.”

Stiles waggles his fingers in his direction. “Uh-uh, you broke the rules first. So, I just broke them right back. Not my fault.”

“Semantics,” Derek says, and what’s weirder is that they start walking back towards the house like everything is cool. 

And nothing is ever really cool between rival assassins so the shit is getting real right now and it’s freaking the hell out of him. Are they seriously flirting over killing each other? What is the general accepted behaviour for situations like this? If there was a handbook, Stiles’ life would be made. 

“You know,” he says eventually. “We don’t actually have to kill each other. I mean, I don’t really have a problem with you, besides the fact that you got some fucking God complex. I’m willing to let the apartment trashing slide.”

“I didn’t trash your apartment,” he says, completely dodging the question. “Boyd and Erica did.”

“Oh, great. More fucking ALPHA’s-”

“And I won’t let people trying to kill me go. I can’t,” he says and Stiles is surprised at the frustration in his voice. “I have to get even.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “Your funeral.”

And then he seizes Derek’s arm, and jerks it at an unnatural angle that it shouldn’t bend. The bones crack distastefully as they break. 

It’s just his wrist, and payback for the crushing-to-dust hand holding earlier. But Derek swears, and jerks away from Stiles’ grip, returning with a vengeance. Stiles tries to move out of range, but Derek is too fast and seizes the front of his shirt, dragging their faces close enough that their noses actually touch.

“You’re going to regret that,” he snarls, and Stiles is shocked by the flush of arousal that kicks into his gut. It overrides any defensive response that should've come to mind. 

Oh God, he hopes Derek doesn’t notice how hard he is, because that’s got to qualify as some kind of assassin sexual harassment. But Derek’s nostrils flare, and his eyes widen like he’s just realised something important, and Stiles has the bad ju ju feeling again. 

He releases Stiles without a word, and storms off into the woods, disappearing like he never existed and leaving Stiles standing alone in the front yard like he just got fake dumped.

But Derek does exist, and he’s coming back for another round. Stiles knows he is. This is nowhere near over. And he swears he can still feel the press of Derek’s thumb against the back of his neck.

  
  
  
  
  
Isaac doesn’t seem too affected by the fact that his ALPHA comrade has disappeared when Stiles re-enters the house alone. That’s probably because his father has reheated the lasagne and served it to them both which is like adding fuel to the fire for Scott- who’s eyeing the rest of the lasagne determinedly. It’s not going to survive his stomach.

He feels super pissed because of Derek. Call him crazy, but he thought they might have maybe been leaning towards the make up sex option, so he’d extended the great olive branch of peace only to have it blow up in his face. 

Derek sucks. Stiles is going to enjoy killing him, though he knows he would have enjoyed the angry, hate sex much better. It’s unbelievably frustrating.

Scott is already well away into supplying how they met as he shovels down food enthusiastically and he thanks the Lord he’d mentioned his fake college life to him before, because by some small miracle, Scott’s story matches up with the one Derek told earlier. 

Isaac helpfully supplies any extra information and Stiles can tell how happy his father is to be hearing about his life. Even if it is a total lie. And now, there’s guilt piled on top of his burnt peace offering. Jesus, he needs to go out and practise with his rifle for a while until he cools off.

“Hey, Stiles,” his father greets him, before he can slip away unnoticed. “Where’s Derek?”

“He had to leave,” he tells him and even he can hear that he sounds angry. “He said sorry and to thank you for dinner.”

His father frowns. “That’s too bad,” he says. “He knew I was just screwing with him, right?”

Stiles sighs and steals his beer, swallowing the rest and ignoring the taste as it floods his throat. 

“He knew, Dad. He just had to go.”

“I should probably go too,” Isaac says, but he’s glancing at Scott as he says so, probably because he’s horrified by how much food he’s eating. 

Scott has driven away many o’ people with his ability to devour everything within a ten mile radius of his mouth.

“Naw,” Scott says to Stiles’ surprise. “Stay for a bit. That’s cool, Mr Stilinski?”

His father nods and Isaac shrugs, sitting back down again. 

“It’s great. And that means I can ask you more questions…”

Stiles groans, and that’s it. He’s reached his limit for the evening. He mumbles something about going to bed, and tells Scott he can sleep on the couch and if Isaac wants he can sleep too, because apparently he has no problem with that and then climbs the staircase up to his room. 

He takes a quick shower, and then crawls gratefully into bed and tries to forget the night ever happened. 

It doesn’t work. Figures.

  
  
  
  
  
When Stiles opens his eyes again, Scott is hovering over him. 

“What the fuck!?” he cries and jerks away from him, wide awake. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just trying to see if there’s any visible sign that you’ve lost your mind.”

He groans, and stretches. “You’re implying I was sane to begin with and that, Sir, is a mistake.”

Scott scoffs, and stares down at him again. “So, you and Derek, huh?” 

Stiles scowls, and drags himself out of bed. “I think you mean, me, Derek, and my Glock.”

Scott only folds his arms. “I think, you know what I mean.”

“What about you and Isaac?” he demands. “You guys seemed pretty buddy buddy last night, and you don’t even have to pretend you’re dating.”

“Isaac’s a cool guy,” Scott argues. “He’s just looking out for Derek like I’m looking out for you.”

Oh God, Scott must be crushing if he’s spouting compliments about an ALPHA. This just has to get worse doesn’t it?

“I don’t care how cool he is, dude. I’m just trying to kill Derek, and Isaac too, if he gets in my way.”

Scott shakes his head. “That’s not what Isaac said. He said you offered Derek a truce last night, but he didn’t take it.” 

Stiles scowls, and wonders how Isaac found out so quickly. And he feels his face heat up, because he's not a truce kind of guy and Scott knows it. 

“Yeah, I did. But that still doesn’t mean I’m not going to kill him.”

“Dude, you introduced him to your dad as your boyfriend,” he says. “He’s already in pretty deep. Don’t you think?” 

Ugh, and of course, he’s the one to blame for the fake boyfriend thing. Although it was totally Derek’s stupid fucking idea. 

“I didn’t-“ he begins, but the doorbell ringing cuts him off mid-argument.

His eyes dart towards the door and he runs without another word, knowing that it’s Derek and he’s here to kill Stiles’ dad because he broke his wrist last night. Stiles doesn’t even care that all he’s wearing is his boxers when he yells to his father that he’ll get the door and wrenches it open, prepared to kill him on the doorstep if he has to. His mouth falls open in horror. Because it’s not who he thought it was. It’s not him at all.

It’s Lydia. She smiles at him sweetly and then walks into the house without invitation. 

“Finstock sent me after the car incident for damage control,” she says sweetly. “We know how you are with explosives.”

Stiles just stares at her blankly. More horrified that she’s here, than the idea that he’s disappointed it wasn’t Derek at the door. 

“What- what…” he mouths uselessly, unable to come up with anything to say. Jesus, if Lydia’s here he’s so fucking screwed. She flips her strawberry blonde curls and her eyes suddenly narrow dangerously.

“Now, what was that comment about me being a sadist?” she asks in a deceptively calm tone.

It’s too early for this shit, but Stiles’ survival instincts kick in. He runs.  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Killing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get hot. Like fire hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY GOD I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! I just had so many ideas and so many places to put them....
> 
> let me know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy!

#  The Killing Time

#    


Stiles is man enough to admit that he hides on the roof for twenty minutes before Scott is able to convince him to climb down. 

It’s a calculated retreat, at best. He knows Lydia prefers her feet to be planted firmly on the earth (which he suspects has something to do with the fact that hell is only that much easier to access from there). 

He thanks the Lord that his father’s already left for work by now. Otherwise he’d have to witness his son's bloody and violent murder at the hands of slightly deranged- yet, unfairly attractive- princess freaking Lydia. 

Not that he’s just going to roll over and let her destroy him. She’s still sitting patiently in the living room; a Venus fly trap lying in wait and he's the stupid, unsuspecting fly. 

So, eventually, he ignores Scott’s irritating attempts to coax him down like he’s a jumper on a ledge. Puts on his big boy assassin pants, and climbs back down thankful for the many, many weapons concealed upon his person.

He steps into the living room like he’s walking a death march and does not admit to the two hunting knives which have slipped into the concealing grip of his hands. 

Scott follows loyally behind him and he’s sort of glad for the company- if only for the potential as human shield. She wouldn’t kill him, though. Or Scott. Finstock would retract her bonus or something. She’s most likely just here to scare the ever-living shit out of him. 

Achievement fucking unlocked. 

He takes a deep breath as she turns like she's some sort of demented woman from a grotesque horror film and smiles, before sipping delicately from her cup of tea.

The very normal tea drinking somehow becomes sinister in her slender grip. 

“I haven’t used anymore explosives,” he promises, cautiously expecting her to explode at any given moment. “And I don’t intend to. The situation requires some fucking skill, not multiple limbs scattered all over the goddamn town.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “You mean, because you realised you were trying to show off for ALPHA Derek,” she returns with a terrifying smirk and then her impenetrable eyes turn to Scott and Stiles literally feels the urge to start breathing heavily like he’s run a mile or dodged a bullet- because she's not looking at him anymore. 

“And you agreed to meet up with Isaac later.”

What. He did not. No freaking way. Scott- honest to God- whimpers, the little fucker and Stiles glares, twirling the knives openly in his hands now as his threatening gaze falls on him. Oh, friendship officially over. Stiles is going to kill him. 

“You agreed to _what? _”__

Scott looks like a deer in headlights, but he doesn’t start running just yet. His self preservation instincts always sucked. 

“We’re staying out of this! We’re just meeting up to communicate and keep tabs on what’s happening between you and Derek!”

Stiles stops advancing on him and cocks his head to the side, deliberating, as he lowers the knives. “You mean, Isaac is telling you what Derek is doing?”

Interesting. Maybe he shouldn't kill him, just yet. Intel first. Then murder. Scott’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, still holding his ground. 

“No, no. Isaac’s not a nark. He’d never sell Derek out to anyone.”

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to throttle him, because Lydia distracts him from that wonderfully therapeutic task by speaking. “ALPHA and ABOM-nation agreed to stay out of this,” she begins suspiciously, as if her speaking it will make Isaac click his red heels three times and go home. 

Instead, the phone rings. The situation is too tense for Stiles to do anything, but stand there and stare blankly at the thing making all the noise. No one moves. The answering machine clicks in after a moment and they look at it in interest.

“Hey, Stiles,” his dad calls over the machine and Stiles immediately tenses. “Bring your boyfriend over again tonight so I can get to know him more thoroughly…”

He groans as Lydia raises an eyebrow. Oh God, he better not be trying for a full body search on Derek or something. Is that what he means by thorough? Stiles hopes not. Jesus. He is royally fucking screwed. He prays a silent prayer that his father leaves it at that. 

Oh God, please don’t let him mention Derek. Please stop talking, Dad. Like now, please. 

He doesn’t. Of course. Thanks for nothing. 

“-I am nowhere near done in this parental investigation. I’m cashing in years of meet-the-parent torture, Stiles. I have to make sure he’s perfect for you…”

Stiles kind of just covers his face and keeps praying for a miracle, that something will somehow stop his dad from talking like a piano falling on him or his head spontaneously combusting or something. Either would suffice right about now. 

“Though I’ve got no doubt the sex is fantastic…”

“Oh my God,” he cries, and drops the knives in protest. 

Nope. This is not okay. Stop. His dad has to stop. Like right fucking now, please. Oh, Jesus. Does he have this opinion because he walked in on them trying to kill each other? Is that his idea of hot sex? Oh God, who is this man that calls himself his father?

“Given what I heard the other night and the fact that he appears to be some kind of mountain of man muscle… What I mean, son, is that I’m proud, very proud that you were able to pull such a catch-”

Lydia’s eyes narrow like she’s starting to figure out what’s going on and Stiles glances at Scott whose expression is one of pure terror. Oh, God. Stiles just knows this is going to get worse. Please don’t say it, he wants to beg. Don’t say his name. Because dragon woman will know and death will be swift, but painful. Please, he wants to say, if you love me, you’ll shut the hell up right now. You wouldn’t really get your son killed would you?

Apparently, he would.

“-Oh yeah, and Derek’s car’s been released from forensics…”

Lydia lets out a sharp gasp and whirls on Stiles who is already diving for the answering machine to destroy it. With his bare hands. 

“I’m sure he wants that back if only to weep over the remains. Okay, Stiles?”

He fumbles with the buttons for a second, but his dad has replaced the old one so he has no idea what he’s doing. It's like trying to work a space ship. 

“Oh, and tell Scott to bring Isaac. I know you said they weren’t dating, but God, Stiles, I have never seen so much eye sex in my entire…”

Stiles rips the plug out of the socket and mercifully, his father finally falls silent. Slowly, uneasily, he turns back to face Lydia. Scott is steadily backing away from her, hands up in terrified surrender. She does nothing, but calmly put the cup back onto its saucer. 

Then she looks up at them and it’s like her eyes are burning right through their souls. “Let me understand something,” she says finally. “Your father believes that Derek... as in ALPHA, Derek, is your boyfriend?”

Stiles just kind of edges cautiously around the couch until he’s standing next to Scott. He's all for solidarity right now. Human shield and all. Her eyes turn towards his best friend and Stiles just knows they’re about to die. 

Scott swallows his tongue, at least that’s what Stiles believes he does. It looks about as uncomfortable as swallowing one’s tongue would look. They're dead, that's it. Game over.

“And he seems to think that you and Isaac are flirting with your eyes?”

She goes to stand up, but Scott- actual heart of gold and courage- Scott, swears and bolts out of the house like a wanted criminal. Stiles doesn't stand around and wait for his cue. He sprints out of the room, hot on Scott's heels.

 

  
  
  
  
  


And that's how the both of them end up huddled together on the roof of Stiles’ father’s house as Lydia shrieks at them from below, because they are brave and courageous men who understand when it is time to climb high things all in lieu of facing terrifying women.

“Of all the stupid things you could have told him, you had to say you were dating!” Lydia yells up at him, and Stiles is very offended by the assumption that it's his fault for this cock up. He totally resents that.

He may or may not have abandoned his knives in the living room when he took to the hills running, but Stiles is still brave enough to lean over the edge to shout back, 

“It’s not my fucking fault! Derek said it first!”

Scott claps him helpfully on the back in what he probably assumes to be encouraging, but Stiles hasn’t quite forgiven him for attempting to abandon him with Lydia and her wrath and the force of the blow pushes him a little more over the edge then he’d like. His fingers tighten on the roof gutter.

“How am I going to clean up this mess?” she screams. “And Scott…”

Scott shudders, and Stiles winces as he scoots away from the edge of the roof as if she can physically pull him down from this height. Her hair actually looks like it’s aflame from their vantage point. 

Stiles wonders if she’s angry enough to make it start smoking. If he had a gun she wouldn't be standing there for very long. They all know it. Fuck, why did he hide his Glock from his father? 

“Flirting with our rival company is not how you remain employed at ABOM-nation! Keep it in your pants, dammit!”

Scott leans over so quickly that Stiles has to grab onto his shirt to keep him from falling. “I did! I swear!”

Stiles curses, and yanks him back out of her view. 

“You dumbass!” he snaps. “Don’t admit there’s anything to keep in your pants!”

Lydia actually growls in frustration, and Stiles has never been more thankful that his father wanted a two story house. Although, he’s not confident two stories are going to shield them from her fury at the moment. He thinks she might be suffering a psychotic break. Or at the least, very close to popping a blood vessel.

“I’m going to check into the hotel,” Lydia says in a calmer voice reserved for her victims before she starts a killing spree or something. 

Stiles is so glad they never actually dated now. So very, very glad. 

“And I’m going to shower, and then I’m coming back. And if both Stiles or Derek are still alive and have not sorted out their problems and Scott has sold ABOM-nation secrets to Isaac then I’m going to slaughter you all.”

Stiles swallows heavily, and they both watch as she disappears into the house to retrieve her handbag before walking to her car. Then she waves at them with a deceptively friendly smile as if she hadn’t just threatened to kill them and gets into her car and drives away, fucking hunky dory.

“Eye fucking Scott?” Stiles demands after they watch her go. “Really?”

Scott flushes, and shoves at his shoulder. “You called for a truce. You never call for truces. You know you're just as screwed as me.”

Stiles shoves back, and ignores what Scott couldn’t possibly be implying. “I could kill you, dude, I’m considering it. How is boning Isaac going to help solve my problems?”

Scott rolls away from him, but Stiles can see the tips of his ears are red. “How am I meant to help you? You heard Lydia. We’re not meant to interfere. And Isaac promised he won’t as long as…”

“What?” he barks, so unbelievably pissed off. 

Jesus, how much have these two been talking? They must've exchanged cell phone numbers or something. He wants to kill Scott for letting down the team, then his father for selling him out to Lydia and then Derek for being such a monumental asshat and not accepting his truce. God, this officially sucks ass.

Scott’s expression wavers. “As long as you don’t kill Derek.”

Stiles actually punches him this time and Scott rolls away with a groan of pain, nursing his dead arm. 

“How the hell am I not meant to kill him when he turned down my fucking truce?” he demands angrily.

“I don’t know!” Scott shouts back. “Jesus, Stiles did you have to hit so hard?”

“Yes, I did!” he snaps. “Now let’s go.”

Scott looks confused. “Where?” he asks.

Stiles gets to his feet and walks over to the very edge of the roof to double check Lydia isn’t going to suddenly leap out of the bushes nearby and maul him to death. When he’s satisfied the coast is clear, he lowers himself until he’s climbing down the side of the house, scurrying along the piping like a spider. He looks up to see Scott’s face hovering over the edge, watching him curiously.

“To Derek, dude,” he says annoyed that he has to explain. Where the hell else would they be going? Pizza? Jesus, Scott. “It’s time we brought the party to his place.”

And he’s jumps from there, feet landing easily in the grass with a plan already forming in his head as Scott follows soon after, dropping down beside him. He’s going to get Derek before Derek comes looking for payback. 

Time to play a little offense. A little counter attack. Though he knows exactly what situation he and Derek would be in right about now if the ALPHA wasn’t such a stubborn asshole. Screwing like animals, if he’d gotten his way. Fucking ALPHA's.

 

"I have to make a call first," he says, already pulling out his work cell. 

Scott follows him into the house and makes a beeline straight for the cupboard. Stress eating. Lydia has terrified him many o' time before this. This is Scott's method of dealing with it, which means Stiles is going to need to go shopping again. Stupid bottomless pit of a stomach.

He picks up on the second ring, but he, of course, being Jackson is not fucking happy about it. Go figure.

"What the fuck?" Jackson growls into the receiver and Stiles just lives for his sunny disposition he does, really. 

He can hear the soft murmur in the background as the wonderful human being that actually can handle him, works his magic and Jackson returns with a nicer- much nicer, for Jackson anyway- "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to Danny," he says. 

Danny doesn't keep a cell phone for longer than two days, because he's too paranoid with that sort of stuff and the only person who knows all of his new cell numbers is his assassin boyfriend, Jackson. So, Stiles has to deal with the asshole every single time he wants Danny's help. 

It's pretty finicky as things go, but then again if Danny wants to disappear, stay out of reach and go dark for a while, nobody but Jackson has any access to him. There's a reason why he's the best damn hacker around. ABOM-nation would be screwed without him.

And everyone knows it. Including Finstock. They should give him a pay rise.

Jackson grunts out a rude reply, because he's still a douchebag, but hands the phone over. Oh God, Danny is just a miracle, really. Stiles thanks the Lord every day that Danny met Jackson and somehow felt something other than pure, blind rage. Jackson would have become a blazing serial killer without him. No doubt in his mind.

"Stiles," Danny greets him calmly, even though Stiles can hear Jackson on his own little Godzilla rampage in the background. 

Jeez, so damn touchy. How does Danny do it? Stiles just prefers to believe that he's clearly something inhuman to put up with Jackson's shit and nobody has any hope of besting him in anything.

"I'm calling in that favour, dude," he tells him. "I want you to find any information on Derek Hale that you can get your hands on and send it to me, if you can."

"Stiles," Danny says slowly and he can hear the warning in his voice. "We're not supposed to..."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "He's here with another ALPHA-"

Danny, stubbornly vanilla and forever do-gooder, hesitates. "But Stiles..."

"Lydia's here," he says conversationally, knowing that'll change his mind in a heartbeat.

Danny is silent all of two seconds as Jackson bursts into laughter in the background. 

"Lydia?" Jackson crows. "Wow, Stiles you really fucked up."

"Shut up, jackass," he snaps loudly. "You're the one who dated her."

Danny sighs, very familiar with this dance. He jumps in before either of them can get going. Riling up Jackson is Stiles' favourite pastime.

"If Lydia's there, it has to be serious," he says, and Stiles would kiss him or something, but Jackson would probably rip his balls off and make him eat them. "I'll send what I drag up over by tomorrow at the latest."

Stiles opens his mouth to thank him, but Jackson speaks first. 

"Later," he growls to Danny, sounding much closer than he was before. "I'm not finished with you, yet."

Stiles makes a strangled noise of horror and too-much-information-dear-God-my-ears and then hangs up before he can even think of thanking Danny. 

But that's okay, because apparently Jackson's got that part covered.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Stiles doesn’t have to go looking for Derek, because he’s already been to the sleazy motel he’s staying at when he attached the explosives to his car the day before. He knows where he is. Plus, he doesn’t actually think Derek’s the type of dude to hide from anybody. 

So he can't really turn around and pat himself on the back for finding him because Derek's a cocky bastard who doesn't think anyone can kill him, anyway.

Not that there’s anything much to hide in anymore when he and Scott finally drive over there. Because the sleazy motel- Hills Inn, fondly nicknamed Hell's Sin by the residents of Beacon Hills, and anybody within a five mile radius of the motel who have eyes and can see how much staying there is a bad, bad idea- has become only half a questionable one star of accommodation motel.

Because the rest has burnt down. Oh, nice.

Stiles would like to think somehow he’s had a hand in this. With the power of his mind by merely willing the Derek problem to go up in flames and the universe simply felt like throwing him a fucking bone and providing all and such for once. But even he knows he’s not that lucky. 

So either Lydia has really gone above and beyond her job description here or there’s another player on the field. And apparently, they have something against Derek.

Or seedy motels.

He steps around the fire brigade and they ignore him, packing up their equipment because they’ve killed the flames already and mostly because he’s still remembered as the Sheriff’s- too curious for his own good- kid. There's an ambulance too, but no one seems seriously hurt. He doesn't see the cops. 

Nobody tries to stop him. Not even Scott, who’d muttered a choice curse and gone off in search of his ALPHA lover because he’s already whipped and apparently Isaac being burnt to a crisp is a bad thing.

God, Stiles wants to castrate the moron for thinking with his penis and not his stomach, for once. It has to be the dumbest fucking move Scott’s ever made and all because of some goddamn curls and motherfucking pretty eyes. 

Jesus. At least Allison was on their team, a comrade in arms or whatever despite how much Stiles really doesn’t want to get into the Scott and Allison show again. She’s much better though, as options go.

But it’s clear how fucking complicated this is becoming. A total fucking mess. Which is probably why it’s so easy to spot the direct cause of said mess, covered in soot and ash as it storms towards him, posture stiffer than a fucking board and utterly furious. 

Stiles actually feels a jerk of concern yank at his insides as Derek stops in front of him, breathing heavily like it’s harder for him than usual.

Or he’s just that pissed. He can hardly see his face behind all of the blackness covering every inch of him. He looks like he's a chimney sweeper or something. Stiles comes to the very realistic conclusion that Derek was inside when the fire happened. Too bad a little flame doesn’t seem enough to stop him. The concern tugs at him again and his eyes widen at the image Derek makes right now. 

God, his hand is already reaching out for the side of Derek’s face that’s slick with blood- his own blood, he’ll hazard a guess- before he can think what he’s doing.

“Are you..?” he begins, surprised to hear the stress in his voice as he reaches for him like the worst excuse for an assassin anyone’s ever seen. 

Because he's about to ask if Derek's okay, and what the fuck is wrong with him? Derek snarls, and smacks his hand away before seizing his arms and crowding him up against the fire truck. All intimidating and forceful like he’s trying to push into him and keep pushing. 

He’s too startled to react. The place is swarming with witnesses and he’d never have guessed Derek could be as desperate to try to finish this now. In front of everyone. Shit, maybe even his dad.

The metal digs painfully into his back and he realises abruptly that Derek’s wrist (which he distinctly remembers _breaking_ last night) is clamping tightly down on his bicep, both hands pinning his arms securely against his ribs. The strength he’s applying to restrain his body is not natural and Stiles has never felt it before. 

It’s like Derek’s packed up on super steroids and Stiles struggles to keep his face blank of emotion as the grip tightens. But Jesus, this guy could be lifting fucking cars he’s so strong and it freaking _hurts._

A heady gasp escapes his mouth before he can choke it up in his throat and keep it there, and a flush of heat burns through him as Derek presses closer so that their chests are almost touching. He can feel the intimate press of Derek’s thighs against his own and his heart pounds wildly against his rib cage as Derek’s steel grip of pain on his arms abruptly loosens. 

Stiles can smell the smoke as it latches onto his clothing and clogs his nostrils, making it harder to breathe him in- even though he desperately wants to.

“I thought you wanted a truce,” Derek growls, low shorts breaths sliding along the shell of his ear as he leans in closer to speak. 

Stiles jeans have become uncomfortably tight, his head clouded with the press of bodies. The heat of them and the slick seductive pleasure of Derek’s mouth, hot against his ear renders him completely useless.

This is so fucking wrong. The only stabbing Stiles wants to do right now is with his cock. And he’d be happy for it to go in any of Derek’s orifices, if he pleases. Oh fucking hell, in Derek’s _mouth._

 _ _Yes. Stiles volunteers. That’s exactly the kind of stabbing he would like to be doing, spearing Derek’s mouth with his hard as fucking nails cock until he swallows him down, sucks the fight right out of him. Sweet Lord, he very much fucking wants that to happen.__

He’s pretty sure Derek’s making him completely depraved and it's not helping how damn horny he already is. His wrist is starting to get sore from overuse and that is a depressing thought. It’s not very professional, at all. He feels for Scott’s keeping-it-in-pants dilemma, he really does.

"You fuckwit," he snaps. "I didn't do anything!"

Derek suddenly pulls away and Stiles notices his nostrils flare as if he can smell Stiles’ erection like an animal in heat and that brings him back down to reality. The reality being- he can’t rut up against this awesome male specimen and any bump and grinds are confined to the bloodied, breaking-bones-and-faces variety. 

Oh, God. He’d seriously been considering rubbing one off on Derek- the dude, who wants him deader-than-dead. That is not going to help the situation. 

Oh Jesus, is this his idea of self preservation instincts? He needs to work on that. Stiles flexes his wrists and twists his hands outwards, pushing Derek until he’s the one pinning him against the fire truck with an arm against his throat because if he has Derek against him for any longer, he’s going to do something very stupid. 

“Your wrist,” he forces out, totally ignoring and denying the intensity of what they were just doing. Or not doing, or pretending they were not doing. 

Which was killing each other. God, why were they not doing that?

“I broke it,” he says, and the certainty helps clear his lust fogged brain so it resembles something other than embarrassingly mushy, melted goo. Holy fuckery, he needs to get laid. “I know, I fucking broke it. Why the hell isn’t it broken now?”

Derek actually shakes and for a second Stiles is hit with the terrifying realisation that he’s laughing at him, because he is actually goddamn motherfucking shitballs _laughing _in his face right now. Stiles’ pushes his arm harder against his larynx and the laughter dies off quickly after that.__

 _ _His eyes narrow and Derek tries to do something, growl at him, he thinks, only it comes out sounding like some sort of distressed drowning cat sound.__

And then, because he is an idiot who is also suffering from thinking-with-penis-and-not-fully-functioning-brainitis, he laughs at the sound. Derek’s expression deepens suddenly and Stiles can see intent in his gaze. Dangerous intent. And he cannot fucking believe that he was even considering a fucking truce last night.

This nutjob needs to be wiped off the face of the earth. And then, as if he was planning on scaring him shitless, red suddenly bleeds into Derek’s eyes like he’s just popped some major blood vessels or capillaries. And Stiles is back to looking into those red eyes that terrified the ever-living shit out of him the first time they met. Oh, crap. So apparently, it hadn’t been some weird-ass-aurora-borealis trick of the light, part of his imagination.

Dammit. It would be so much easier if he’d imagined it. Stiles alleviates the pressure, constricting Derek’s airway and pulls back, swallowing heavily as his heart beats faster than it should be.

“I- fuck, your eyes,” he says breathlessly, looking into his face and wondering if Satan is looking back at him. Entirely possible right now. Fuck.

Derek pushes him and lowers his gaze, but then his arm coils out to slide around his waist as Stiles tries to get the fuck away from the dude whose wrists don’t break and whose eyes bleed fucking red, because that is not normal human shit. Not to mention the super steroids he must be on.

“Stiles!” his father calls, and he realises what Derek’s doing. 

Keeping up appearances for his menace of a father. He relaxes his stance and tries to keep his poker face as the Sheriff approaches with two other Deputies trailing dutifully behind him. One of them being Karen who shoots him a knowing look that has him flushing.

The cavalry has arrived. Oh, sweet joy. And where the fuck is Scott?

“Jesus, Derek,” The Sheriff says when he sees him. “Were you in there when the fire started?”

“Yes,” he spits, hands tightening into fists and Stiles is impressed he can even manage any syllables at this point. 

The angry growling thing seemed to be working for him so well before.

“Is that blood son? Do you need to go to the hospital?” his dad demands, and Stiles can hear genuine concern in his voice and it leaves a bad feeling swirling in his gut.

Stiles shifts his hip, and glances at now normal eyed Derek with narrowed eyes. What the fuck is this dude? And why won’t he fucking die already? And why the hell is his father calling him son? They are not fucking adopting this crazy ass mofo. 

Derek is not his fucking son in law. His dad needs to stop working his mouth before Stiles puts a bullet in it. But then he’s his father so the only bullet that he’ll be putting anywhere near him are the ones in people that try to hurt him. Or when he needs to convince his dad not to eat a cholesterol greasy trap of death. Jesus, this job is bigger than he thought. Stiles is going to run out of bullets altogether. 

“Just a scratch,” Derek replies shortly. “I’ll be fine once I find a place to clean up.”

Stiles sees the gears turning as his father frowns and he knows that whatever he’s thinking is a very, very bad thing and he should stop thinking that right now, please.

“Uh, dad…” he starts trying to shoot the horse in the face before it turns around and kicks him in the ass. Too late. 

“You’ll stay with us,” his father says, and Stiles just closes his eyes in defeat because of course that would be the perfect suggestion to make to his son's fake boyfriend. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Of course, thanks Dad. Now they're screwed. His father must catch Derek’s expression, because then he claps him on the shoulder, making the ash airborne into some kind of black death smoke when he touches him. Derek winces like he’s resisting the urge to sneeze as it lingers in the air around them. Damn, he does need to clean up and pronto.

“Lighten up,” he says. “I know I gave you a hard time last night, but I promise to keep the interrogation to a minimum. Besides Stiles has been moping without you and it’s a little pathetic…”

“Dad!” he cries and Derek’s grip on his hip shifts and suddenly his warm fingers are underneath his shirt which has ridden up, exposing the expanse of flesh above the waistband of his jeans. Stiles is too shocked to wonder if it's an accident. Because Houston, that's skin to skin contact and that's a problem.

Oh, shit. He needs to stop that. Derek needs… he needs... to keep going. Fuck.

He shudders at the touch and it is not helping things in the keeping-it-in-your-pants department. Lydia is going to kill him, he just knows it. Though, if he remembers clearly, she emphasised slaughter so it’s not going to be quick or remotely pretty. 

Stiles is not in the mood to be slaughtered. Or to bring Derek back to his house where it’s so much easier for mister my-eyes-bleed-red-I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-it to kill him.

Or for Lydia to kill them both.

Fuck. Fuck. Why the hell is his dad doing this to him? Hasn’t Stiles been a good son? Is this because he’s been too busy shooting people to visit? It’s a revenge thing right? Maybe for the health foods he’s forced him to stomach over the years.

Either way, this has got to be some kind of parental abuse. “Are you trying to torture me?” he asks honestly before he can stop himself. 

His father blinks at him and Derek’s grip becomes bruising. A silent message to shut the fuck up or die. Painful. Just how he likes it. Ugh.

What kind of cool aid is this dude drinking, seriously? This better not mean he's lacking in equipment. Using super steroids would have to shrink his testicles into tiny, little grapes or something and no matter how pretty his face is, Stiles doesn't think he can work with grapes. Okay fine, he can work with grapes if they're Derek's grapes. He'll admit it. God. 

“Of course not,” his father scoffs, turning away to go and start taking statements. “He can stay in your room, Stiles. I’m not _that _heartless.”__

Derek tenses like there's a rod being jammed up his ass and Stiles' mouth drops open.

Oh yes. Stiles believes he _is _that heartless.__

And now he is so not getting a Father’s day present. Or Christmas. Or birthday present. Ever again. In fact, Stiles is now officially enforcing a father-prevention-from-letting-your-fake-boyfriend-into-your-home-and-bedroom-so-he-can-kill-you-with-his-weird-eyes-and-non-breakable-bones support group.

All new members welcome.  
  
  
  
  



	5. Warm Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nakedness. Lots of nakedness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this took so long. I just got meself a job of the full time variety so my time has been sorely limited of late and I'm in a perpetual state of laziness. But here goes. Stay with me guys. I've got more to come XD
> 
> Enjoy!

# Warm Bodies

#    
  


Stiles watches his father walk away and considers the years of his life that will be sorely wasted in prison if he murders him in the destroyed parking lot of a seedy motel.

The back of his head seems to encourage some kind of drastic epiphany intervention as opposed to outright assassination. 

Look at your life, Stiles, his father’s disappearing figure seems to say. Look at your choices. 

Note to self: stop internalising and just shoot something, already. Preferably, Derek. Ugh. Derek. The one person who seems content to kill him slowly with brief touches, surly comments fraught with potentially sexual euphemisms and the general brain cell blast zone that is his ridiculously attractive face.

A face that makes Stiles want to punch himself in his own face. Although, it probably won’t solve any of his problems. Numero uno being, his father is some kind of sick, twisted, cupid matchmaker who seems to mistake murderous intent for a healthy and loving relationship.

Stiles really needs to sit him down and talk about that. Abso-fucking-lutely.

After he’s figured out what the hell Derek is. And how to kill him. And then how to get away with killing Lydia so she won’t dismember him. And then Scott, so he’ll stop thinking with his dick and putting them all in danger. And maybe kill Jackson too while he’s at it, reason being his spectacular douchebaggery. If there’s time. He can make an effort for Jackson, because he knows it’ll be worth it.

Stiles better start making a hit list. 

Of course, that’s about when he locates Scott off into the distance, arm around Isaac- although it’s pretty damn obvious Isaac is not remotely injured and can actually walk on his own. 

He’s not as much of a mess as Derek, so Stiles thinks he might not have been inside during the fire. Although, Scott is acting like Florence fucking Nightingale, half supporting him despite both of them knowing he doesn’t need the extra help. Neither of them feel the need to acknowledge this.

Stiles scowls, and rolls his eyes then mimics shooting himself in the face. Or course, Scott doesn’t even notice the stupid, besotted fucker. Derek does, though. Derek who still has his arm curled possessively around Stiles' waist and is apparently attempting to burn through his clothes with the heat of his hand.

Jesus, how long had they been standing like that? His dad isn’t even nearby to see them anymore. They didn't need to keep up the charade, so why is there touching? Stiles manages to extract himself without another nuclear explosion. Although from the expression on Derek’s face, it’s a close call. 

He’s pretty sure there’s no turning back from this. Half naked encounters on his childhood bed aside, he’s certain that Derek’s abject horror at the slumber party of death is a bad sign. He’s definitely feeling something. But maybe that’s just his erection. Semantics. He doesn’t fully believe that stepping away from Derek will prevent him from realising that his presence seems to make Stiles very happy in his pants. 

That’s not the issue right now.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, baby,” Stiles says clearing his throat and tucking his chin low to avoid Derek's gaze. 

The words feel forced and uncomfortable.

Derek grunts, dispelling more ash and Stiles has to look away before he starts laughing, but Derek seems to know what he’s thinking. Because he grunts again deeper and more menacing, before seizing the scruff of his shirt and dragging him towards the jeep.

Stiles protests and wriggles free, but he still follows Derek to his car, only slightly concerned for what his blackened presence will do to the upholstery.

  


 

  
  


  


The drive back to his father’s place has to be the worst drive of his life. Derek is seriously pissed off and any attempts at awkward small talk are shot down with more grunts and growly sounds that seem to count as responses to his endless questions.

Apparently, Derek is not a happy camper right now. Stiles still somehow thinks it’s hilarious, whilst sitting on the edge of perpetual alertness in the event Derek goes for a surprise attack. He’s still uber pissed at his father, too. The fact that he’s the person to blame for this new shacking-up development hasn’t escaped Stiles’ notice. He’s already planning the perfect revenge.

When he climbs out of the jeep, Derek doesn't even wait and just heads straight for the shower. Stiles is a little concerned that he doesn’t ask where it is as if he already knows the answer. He walks into the kitchen and starts making some coffee, wondering if Derek is going to come barging into the room with a knife to kill him.

He doesn’t feel bad for ditching Scott. The guy seemed a little busy anyway and right now he’s sort of not in the mood for his lovelife shit. He’s kind of more focused on the very obvious fact that he and Derek are alone in the house together and now is the perfect time to start with the killing part. It’s not his fault Derek didn’t want a truce.

And now he’s going to pay for that mistake. Because Stiles is getting on the murder train. He goes towards a nearby cupboard, opens and reaches in deep for the weapon he stowed away there as soon as he'd arrived. It detaches easily and it’s a reassuring weight in the grip of his hand.

He swallows the hesitation in him, ignores the very life endangering fact that he keeps hesitating with Derek and it’s going to get him killed eventually, before he starts up the stairs. He can hear the running water and he’s instantly distracted by the images of naked Derek swimming in his brain, because Derek’s totally bare ass naked in there and if killing him means that’s the final image of the dude he’ll be seeing then he’s totally okay with that.

Stiles thinks he should feel bad about what he’s about to do. There’s a standard for keeping your house guests alive. He doesn’t think slitting Derek’s throat is going to win him any brownie points.

Oh, well. Can’t win them all. And he’d preferred not to be slaughtered by Lydia, so that means Derek’s gotta take a one way journey to the afterlife.

Pronto.

He reaches the door, adjusting his grip on the slick knife that he’ll be jabbing into Derek’s belly soon enough and steels himself for a very bloody clean up. His dad will ask questions if there’s blood everywhere. There are some things eventually he’s bound to notice.

Stiles extends his arm out to twist the doorknob, but it flies away from his grip, swinging inwards. And suddenly Derek is standing there, half naked and dressed only in a towel. Stiles freezes. And then his brain promptly dies. Because that is one fine ass body and it’s within reach of his hands, which he would very much like to have all over Derek.

His eyes drift over sculpted muscles, falling onto the blue towel that he's attempting to burn through by will alone. Derek instantly notices the knife and his expression hardens beneath the wet hair flopping messily over his eyes. It is the single most endearing thing Stiles has seen in his entire life. He just wants Derek’s head in his lap while he cards his fingers through his hair, because that would be awesome. Derek is awesome. They should be awesome together.

The blue towel still covering all of the good bits, however is not. Stiles wishes that’s what went up in flames today, including every article of clothing that Derek owns so he is reduced to nothing but manly, sinfully good, nakedness.

Oh, please let that towel slip off the firm ridges of his hip bones. Let it sink a little lower.

Preferably to the floor.

Derek eventually speaks. “You think that’s going to do anything?” he asks, indicating towards the knife in his hand.

Stiles cannot even look away. For a second there, he’d forgotten he even had hands, let alone a weapon in them for murdering. He blinks, swallows. Blinks again.

The towel remains where it is. Dammit.

“I’m a traditionalist at heart,” he manages finally and yes those sounded like words. 

He’s doing well so far. Derek folds his arms, because apparently he’s aware he’s being objectified, but the movement tightens muscles that should not tighten ever in Stiles’ presence if he’s to resist boning the hell out of him.

The towel loosens slightly, shifts lower. Stiles’ almost accidentally stabs himself. Is it wrong that he’s nearly salivating right now? Should they not acknowledge the very self evident bulge in his trousers? Derek swallows like he’s choking on a lemon and Stiles watches his adams apple bob up and down with an open, hungry mouth.

He’s doing it on purpose. He has to be, this has to be one extreme form of torture.

“Any time now would be good,” Derek says eventually and being clean must be doing something good to his mood, because now he’s smirking.

Oh ,God he’s smirking. Is this a challenge? Does Derek seriously want to fight him right now? He’d be up for that. He’d be totally all up in that. And if he happened to accidentally slash through the blue towel in the confrontation, well…

These things happen, don’t they. He can’t be blamed for that. Derek’s grinning now. There’s something about it, something not quite human and Stiles is suddenly very aware that he’s alone with someone, something that doesn’t break easy.

And Stiles breaks easy. 

Oh, fuck.

“Having some performance issues?”

Stiles flushes, cheeks hot and his heart beats faster for a moment. Then he takes a step closer, making his apparent interest in a toweless Derek, much clearer. He doesn’t speak but he twists the knife again, making his intentions known if as much for himself as well as Derek. He’s going to kill him. Find out what the hell he’s dealing with afterwards.

They rush forward with an intensity of two lovers about to embrace and Stiles tries to duck away, but Derek catches him as he slams up against his naked chest. The fight kind of shudders out of him as soon as he hits all of that warm flesh and the knife clatters to the floor. His fingers end up buried in soft, damp hair as they press closer as if they’re trying to disappear into each other. Tearing inside and trying to get deeper. 

God, Stiles wants deeper right now. Something flighty in him settles; a lifelong instinct always in the back of his mind and he goes boneless. Totally blissed out in an instant. He doesn’t even think to press his erection in another direction other than Derek. He just pushes closer, needing it more than he’s needed anything in his life.

Derek responds, tightening his grip as he buries his mouth into the fragile, vulnerable area of Stiles’ neck. He doesn’t even tense. That’s how far gone he is and instead of Derek mouthing at his neck like he expects, Derek’s nose presses against his skin. Stiles shivers, responsive and loosely pliant as he's never felt before. 

And then Derek seems to inhale.

He makes these breathy little sounds like he’s suddenly short of oxygen and Stiles curves around his body as if they fit together perfectly like this. He has no idea what’s happening or what’s just changed, but his fingers slip free of Derek’s hair resting at the nape of his neck. Derek tenses, and Stiles instantly knows the moment is broken. He’s crossed one of Derek’s indistinct lines somehow and ruined it. As if Derek doesn't trust him to touch the vulnerable area of his throat.

He pushes him away. Hard. Stiles' steps falter before he finds his feet and he can’t seem to force his head up to look at Derek’s face. So he looks at the blue towel instead. The blue towel that’s somehow ended up in _his _hand. His eyes moves so quickly he nearly rolls his whole head.__

Derek is scowling, but for once Stiles isn’t really looking at his face. And holy mother of hell, Derek is so not lacking in equipment. Not at all. 

In fact his non-grape appendages are very fine looking indeed, along with the thick and perfect centrepiece which he very much enjoys ogling at. He doesn’t speak, just keeps blatantly staring.

And Derek just stands there and lets him.

It’s a good system. Stiles is looking at a good system, actually. A very good everything. He very much appreciates, enough that he may feel the need to get on his knees. More than several times in one evening.

He’s willing to make sacrifices.

“I’ll, uh…” Stiles licks his lips. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

“Take your time,” Derek grumbles out, managing to appear haughty even when he’s literally butt naked. 

Stiles is still staring. Well, okay, let’s face, it he’s not going to be looking anywhere else for a while. 

“I can wait.”

Stiles gaze lingers for way too long for it to be polite anymore and he knows he’s leering, but manages to drag his eyes away from the heavenly sight that is naked Derek, committing it to his memory. He doubts he’ll ever forget it, though. The image is permanently branded into his skull. God, his happy times are not going to last very long with that image in his brain.

Derek smirks at him again and Stiles feels like the biggest pervert ever, but his eyes have a mind of their own and they go back to staring at Derek.

And then Scott walks up the stairs.

“What the hell, Stiles? You totally ditched…” 

He trails off at the sight of naked Derek and Stiles practically glued to his side and then backpedals with an outraged sound as if they planned for him to see this. And then he totally trips down the stairs trying to escape. He lets out a strangled yell as the sound of him falling, crashes around them.

Stiles sighs, and stalks off in search of form fitting clothes for Derek because he likes to torture himself like that with the sound of Scott bitching and moaning ringing in his ears. 

  


 

  
  


  


They don’t mention the weird half naked hug/smelling thing and Stiles rolls with it because he’s a big fan of denial. Scott, unfortunately, doesn’t break his face and follows Stiles around like a lost puppy as if walking in on Derek naked means they’re going to screw like rabbits and it's his duty to stop him.

If the option were available, Stiles would do it, so maybe there’s some foundation to Scott’s paranoia. Derek is less like a puppy and more like a hulking predator watching Stiles from afar. His gaze critical and analysing. There's too many big presences in the house.

The unspoken notion of 'soon' can be felt. Stiles keeps thinking Derek is going to jump out from around a corner and throttle him because he hugged him and then totally checked him out naked.

It’s an uncomfortable few hours, to say the least. And the accepted fact of Lydia’s inevitable return is weighing down on him the entire time. Plus, he’s trying to figure out who the hell is trying to kill Derek by torching the motel he was staying at. And then he’s trying to think of the many normal reasons why a broken wrist would suddenly repair itself.

He’s doing a bit too much thinking, actually. If Derek wasn’t in his house, he’d be researching the hell out of this, even with Scott hanging over his shoulder.

“What the hell is going on?” Scott asks eventually when Derek finally deems being nearby a waste of time when it’s obvious Stiles isn’t trying to kill him and disappears.

Stiles is back to making like his fourth cup of coffee and he’s really starting to wonder how he never shot Scott in the face before this. He had no idea that he possessed such restraint. He stirs the coffee thoughtfully for a moment, but he’s stalling.

“Sometimes,” he begins, testing out the words as he thinks. “People walk in on one gloriously naked person with a fully dressed, attractive and alluring young man and it doesn’t automatically equal butt sex.”

Scott’s face twists like he doesn’t appreciate Stiles isn’t taking this seriously, but he is, and right now it’s getting impossible to keep it together if he thinks about it too much. He also keeps thinking about where Derek is sleeping tonight. Because they don’t have an available guest room, Derek's too tall for the couch and his father’s already given Derek the all clear to sleep in his room.

Does that mean they’ll be sleeping together tonight? God, he hopes so. Or maybe not. He doesn’t want to wake up to the sweet sounds of Derek choking the life out of him. That could make the spooning a bit awkward.

Scott apparently seems to agree. “But seriously, dude. What are you doing? Derek’s in your house right now. You were practically all over each other and he was naked. You’ve lost your head, man.”

Stiles slams the cup down, resisting the urge to punch him. “I’ve lost my head? Who the fuck was all over Isaac today after Lydia told you not to? It’s not like I invited Derek here, the situation is out of my control. But you, you just keep making this shit harder for all of us, don’t you?”

He’s too pissed to hear Scott’s response, and stalks out of the house, moving towards the jeep for some furious- blowing off steam- driving. He wants to be alone to angrily contemplate how the fuck any of this is going to work out okay.

He knows it's not. They’re all fucking screwed.

Stiles barely has the chance to open the car door before a heavy hand is coming down over the back of his neck and literally yanking him away from his jeep. He cries out in surprise, but Derek- he knows it's Derek- is moving so fast that by the time he’s recovered enough to push away, they’re already several metres from the car.

“What are…?” 

Derek literally shuts him up by pressing his face into the dirt. Wildly, he thinks that this was the plan from the beginning, to lure him into thinking Derek might not try to kill him before he attacked. But then, the ground shakes and a booming sound shatters through his ears and into his skull. His brain gets rattled around, but not enough for him not to realise that Derek is actually holding him down, covering him with his body.

Protecting him.

And apparently his jeep just blew up.

Fucking fantastic. It’s a controlled blast, but he knows if Derek hadn’t dragged him away he’d be dead and that makes no sense whatsoever.

“What,” he gasps. “What.” 

When Derek finally lets him up, it's just in time to see the terrible smokey wreckage that used to be his car.

He pushes at the chest he was wrapped around several hours ago. “What the hell was that? Assassin’s remorse?”

Derek frowns, but he pulls Stiles away from the burning jeep and Stiles lets him do it. 

“You think I blew up your car,” he says slowly. “If I did, I wouldn’t have grabbed you and you’d be dead.”

Stiles pushes at him again, because he’s still a little pissed but he feels better when Scott comes charging out of the house, white faced.

He sighs and kicks at a random article of debris, wondering who the fuck is trying to kill them both. Apparently unsatisfied that they’re not killing each other or dead yet.

Derek backs off a little as if he’s finally realising the grand opportunity he just let slip by and Stiles keeps staring at the flaming wreck in front of them. Scott is babbling, a little shocked by what’s just happened in Stiles’ front yard. Stiles is getting way too old for this shit.

“How the fuck am I going to explain this to my dad?”

  


 

  
  


  


They manage to explain it. Something about igniting a spark in the gas tank or whatever, but the Sheriff just takes it as a freaky coincidence and asks what’s for dinner.

Derek helps cook dinner.

And he’s a really fucking good cook, despite Stiles’ paranoia around Derek and sharp utensils in the kitchen and he’s surprised by how much he enjoys it. Derek won’t talk about much, nothing about himself; he’s too closed off for that, but he listens to Stiles prattle on and makes withering remarks which make Stiles laugh more than he should allow himself to.

Scott retreats upstairs after their fighting match, tail between his legs.

Dinner isn’t as bad as he expected. His dad is still awful and not to be trusted with words ever, but somehow the system works and nobody dies. Not even when the Sheriff sends Derek to bed in Stiles’ room.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Stiles says when they’re alone in his old bedroom. “I promise not to kill you in your sleep and you’ll refrain from doing the same.”

Derek frowns like agreeing to that pains him, but he gets out a stiff, ‘fine’ and the deal is struck. And Stiles tries not to grin and takes off his shirt. He plans to freak out over all the shit that happened tomorrow when his brain can actually handle it, but now he's more focused on the bed sharing.

Stiles thanks the Lord he finally got upgraded to double bed status, because there’s a bit more room to keep polite distance between them. 

But when they've fallen asleep and Derek rolls over in the night, hand curling across Stiles' hip, he doesn't instantly try to throw him off. Or accidentally attack. He lets him have a good nights rest for once. 

After the day Derek's had, Stiles kind of thinks he's earned it.  
  
  
  
  



	6. Bad Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's pancakes. And Creepy Uncles.

# Bad Company

  
  


The first thing Stiles notices when he slips unwillingly back into consciousness, is that he’s pressed firmly against some kind of furnace.

Blearily, he forces his sleep crusted eyes open, just in time to get a face full of Derek’s hair. Only because apparently, they're spooning. Somehow, whilst asleep his arm has flung easily across Derek's chest, face buried into the nape of his neck. And there is nuzzling involved.

Holy fuck, he’s spooning Derek. Emergency retreat engaged.

And then he realises that his morning wood is pressing up against Derek’s ass and sweet mother of God, Derek is _sleeping _through it.__

Because apparently, he’s subconsciously okay with this. If the weird hugging/smelling moment is an indication of a predilection toward same sex tendencies.

His cock twitches a little at the thought. But no, he can’t do this if the little spoon is asleep and unaware. Especially, if the little spoon is set on killing him. There are rules here and that’s a whole different level of wrong. Consent is a big thing.

Stiles swallows the heady feeling swirling through him and moves to extract his arm from around Derek’s chest. But then the shit kind of hits the fan. Because when Stiles attempts to remove his traitorous hand, he accidentally brushes across Derek’s nipple.

And maybe that wouldn’t have been such a terrible thing, except Derek moans softly at the sensation and pushes his ass into Stiles’ cock, just as Stiles is leaning over to free his hand. 

There is an inescapable moment of contact. And too pleasurable to be innocent, friction. They're basically about to rub one off on each other for locations benefit and accidental design. And that is so not what he envisioned when sleeping with the enemy.

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, just as Derek realises what’s happening and wrenches himself away as if Stiles is a bomb about to explode. Not a dude with a boner who wants to screw him senseless. 

Stiles rolls away too, scrabbling at the illusion of modesty as he covers his crotch- although Derek has clearly realised how happy he is to see him. That mystery solved itself faster than Derek could blink.

And that’s a little bit awkward. They stare at each other from across the bed and no one says anything. Stiles can see the red flush creeping up Derek’s neck and resists the urge to laugh at the situation. Because there’s a lot of tension between two dudes that have accidentally spooned.

And clearly enjoyed it. 

There’s a tentative knock at the door which interrupts whatever the hell is happening right now and Stiles is kind of relieved.

That is until his dad says, “This better not be a clothing optional situation,” before he walks into the room.

Stiles actually sighs, and reaches down to tug on a pair of jeans, silently willing away his erection. 

“God, Dad,” he replies. “Not everyone sleeps naked.”

His father grins. “Just me then?”

And Stiles appreciates how easily that makes Derek wince, he really does. But he doesn’t freak out that much though, because he has better images to conjure in his mind like say a blue toweless Derek. All the nakedness of the ALPHA. Although, that’s not helping getting rid of his erection.

“Is there a particular reason you’re trying to traumatise us?” he asks as he pulls a shirt over his head. 

He notices Derek getting dressed out of the corner of his eye and it saddens him greatly, though the fact that he’s still flushed is stroking his ego a lot more than it should.

“Nope,” Sheriff admits, cheerfully. “But I have a later start at work today and I was thinking we should go out and have breakfast somewhere. Scott’s not invited.”

Stiles grins just as Scott makes a whining sound from down the hall. “Aw c’mon, Mr S. I won’t eat that much!”

His father says something under his breath which sounds appallingly like ‘bullshit,’ but Stiles spooned Derek all night so he’s feeling magnanimous enough to ignore it.

Scott says something about unfair treatment of house guests from the safety of down the hallway, because he does believe in the clothing optional situation and doesn’t want to see anymore nakedness than he’s already seen.

This is where he and Stiles differ greatly. Surprisingly, Derek agrees to breakfast and even permits his father to drive them there, but not before Stiles subtly inspects the police cruiser for explosives. Naturally, Stiles is also the one who ends up in the backseat. 

Jesus, his father seems to be operating under the assumption that he’s hilarious.

The only reason he doesn’t protest is because apparently he has a kink for being behind the bars separating the front seats when Derek is on the other side. And from the way his gaze keeps sliding back to him every couple of minutes, it seems Derek likes the idea, too.

Hell, He seriously needs to get laid if he’s starting to believe that killer ALPHA Derek is into him. There’s this thing called delusion and he would prefer that it didn’t get him dead.

Of course, his father takes them to the new IHOP that’s been built the next town over. Stiles is not willing to let that cholesterol inducing meal choice slide without some serious lecturing. But his father pushes Derek into the booth next to him and his hand accidentally comes down over the ridge of his thigh, tantalisingly close to his happy business and any protests he’s about to voice, vanish. 

Derek quickly yanks his hand back, but the damage is way past already done.

“Sorry,” his father says, not sounding sorry at all as he hastily orders the worst and unhealthiest thing on the menu, whilst Stiles is distracted by Derek hotness. 

He should not have sat so close. Stiles can feel the press of his thigh against his own and it’s literally melting his brain. And then Derek’s mouth comes down hot and breathy over the shell of his ear as he mutters, 

“That was on purpose,” and Stiles literally has no chance in hell of producing cognitive thoughts.

So, he promptly shudders and wonders when his father became such a manipulative fucker. 

The waitress takes the rest of their orders after giving his father an odd look for his unrestrained enthusiasm, but not before she offers highly suggestible assistance to Derek who politely ignores the thorough eye ogling with a pained expression on his face. She twirls away with a seductive twist of her hips and Stiles has the sudden, unreasonable urge to break her legs. But then Derek moves his arm to rest behind Stiles on the edge of the booth in a casual gesture that he’s perfectly okay with and he stops thinking violent thoughts. 

“So, I am curious,” his father says, and Stiles has known him long enough to despise the beginning of that sentence. 

Derek’s arm shifts behind him and Stiles actually presses into it. Keeping him there. Because if he’s going down, then Derek is sure as hell going down with him.

“Why the meet the parents experience now?” he asks. “I could have been tormenting you months before this. I feel cheated.”

Stiles resists the urge to sigh in relief. “I think, if you rethink that sentence, Dad. You’ll find your answer.”

And Derek, honest to God chuckles, like this shit is funny. The waitress returns and deposits the round of coffee everyone requested, eyes thoughtful on the possessive arm Derek has slung behind him.

Derek still ignores her and Stiles’ urge for leg breaking is lessened slightly. He leans forward to blow on the rim of his cup before taking the first burning sip because he likes the way it bites his throat on the way down.  


“So, Dad,” he says, after he puts the cup back onto its saucer. “What about you, huh? Any ladies to meet the son?”

His father actually flushes a little and hello, this might be some very sweet revenge. “If I find out it’s Karen, I’m going to murder you because we all know I called dibs on her first.”

The Sheriff frowns as Stiles grins at his expression. “Stiles, you are aware that Karen is closer to my age than yours.”

He shrugs and leans further into Derek who lets him do it without comment. “What can I say? I like an older woman.”

“I don’t like this conversation,” his father admits.

“Neither do I,” Derek gruffly agrees and Stiles is totally offended Derek is taking his father’s side in this he is.

“Oh, I get it,” he retorts after taking another sip of his coffee. “Now he understands personal boundaries when it’s working in his favour.”

His father smirks. “Stiles, I’m the Sheriff. Everything works in my favour.”

And it’s at that moment when the waitress returns with his father’s greasy foodtrap of death. But just as he opens his mouth to protest, Derek’s fingers slide across the nape of his neck, disappearing into the buzz cut of his hair. 

The touch burns, and Stiles is very aware that Derek is conspiring with his father to permit him to eat terrible, terrible foods. And it’s totally working because he falls utterly speechless and his father is able to shovel concerning amounts of food in his mouth in the interim. 

This is a very bad sign. Stiles is feeling very concerned about the sudden camaraderie between his father and the man who kills people with his bare hands.

And then Derek tenses, fingers going taut in his hair like this concerns him, too. The bell dings, announcing another customer and the waitress hurries over to greet Mr leather jacket creepy dude, who is staring at Stiles a little too intently for his liking. He subtly goes to retrieve the knife from the holster at his hip, but Derek’s other hand reaches out to seize his wrist, stopping him. He glances up in surprise, expecting the worst, but Derek isn’t even looking at him.

He’s growling.

Like a dog. Or a distressed puppy or something. And what the hell does that even mean? Plus, he’s looking at creepy leather jacket dude who’s actually pointing at their table and suddenly the waitress is leading him towards them. Oh no. This can only mean bad things.

“Uh, Derek,” he mutters under his breath whilst his dad is completely oblivious, lost in the bliss of unhealthy food. 

“Who is that?”

“That,” Derek spits, and whoa clearly he doesn’t like this guy. “Is my uncle.”

Stiles is totally confused for all of several seconds before Mr creepy leather jacket uncle dude reaches their booth and extends a hand out towards him, which he doesn’t take because he’s not stupid.

“Mr Stilinski, so nice to meet you. I’m Peter Hale.”

Stiles nearly throws his cup of coffee in the dude’s face and runs for it. Because he's looking at the assignment controller of ALPHA. And he’s a real nasty piece of work. He does not enjoy making assassination a simple easy task.

Oh, no. He makes a show of it. This ALPHA is known for his theatrics. What the fuck is happening right now? Derek look pissed, so he can’t have planned this. Does Finstock know the psychopath of their rival gun for hire organisation is now joining them for breakfast at IHOP? 

Oh, God. What the fuck is this?

“Stiles,” he manages to correct. “It’s Stiles.”

Derek actually groans and Peter mouth splits into a shit eating, albeit creepy, grin and Stiles has an internal freak out when he takes the seat beside his father without bothering to ask if he can join them.

“Stiles’ father, I presume?” Peter guesses, and his father finally looks up from his food to notice some creepy dude is sitting next to him. Great observation skills there, Dad.

“You can call me, Sheriff,” he says, and Stiles rolls his eyes because his father clearly has a knack for aggravating the people that can kill him without blinking. 

“And you are?”

“This is my Uncle Peter,” Derek cuts in and his voice is clipped and hard. They are clearly not a close family. “He’s just visiting.”

His tone leaves no room for compromise and it does not make Stiles pants tighter. Nope.

Okay, it does.

Whatever.

Derek suddenly removes his arm from around him and pulls away as if they were doing something wrong. And Stiles is both offended and embarrassed that a bigshot ALPHA caught him snuggling one of the best contract killers in their company. 

Awkward. Peter smiles. Too wide for it to not be anything, but seriously freaky. He smiles like he knows something and Stiles takes another drink to dispel the tension because he doesn’t like that at all. Apparently, neither does his father.

“You give off a very creepy vibe,” the Sheriff says casually. “Do you happen to be on the national sex offender registry?”

Stiles chokes on his coffee and Derek thumps him on the back with a strangled sound. Oh, dear God. Peter, it seems, is actually rendered speechless by this. His father, of course is unapologetic as per usual.

“Dad,” he gasps. “You can’t just ask people if they’re on the national sex offender registry!”

He actually has the nerve to appear petulant. “Yes, I can,” he says stubbornly. “And I’ll know if they’re lying, too.”

“I have never, nor will I ever, be listed as a sex offender,” Peter replies, though it sounds forced with painful politeness. 

Stiles wants to smash his face into his pancakes. Derek’s thumb rubs soothingly over the back of his neck again and his heart beat stutters.

Peter’s head snaps up like a shark tasting blood in water and Stiles jerks away from Derek’s touch, mainly because he’s closer to Peter than he is and he’s trying to get the fuck away from Mr Creep. It suddenly becomes very self evident that he and Lydia should never ever meet, if only for the survival of humanity.

The waitress returns, placing a plate in front of Peter who digs into his tower of pancakes with a dignified determination. Stiles glances at Derek and they seem to communicate a united sense of horror at the situation.

“You know, it’s funny,” Peter says after his second mouthful. “You smell like Derek.”

Stiles frowns as Derek tenses and curls his hands into fists beneath the table. Stiles stares pointedly at his hands because they’re very nice hands and he happens to enjoy having them wrapped around him. Without the strangulation thing.

Fuck.

“Gee, bloodhound, of course that kind of invasive question dignifies an immediate response,” he says. And when Peter gives him a blank look, he throws his hands into the air in frustration. “We shared a bed, Jesus!”

The waitress passes by as he says this and shoots him a dirty look which he returns with a dazzling smile. But this time as she simpers away again it's in defeat which makes the entire outburst worth it. His father smirks around his mouthful of food. “That’s not all they did.”

Oh, lord. Stiles wants to die. It’s official. Derek clears his throat and Stiles slaps his face to make sure he isn’t actually in a nightmare induced sleep.

“Oh my God, Dad, seriously?”

Peter’s smile turns predatory, and Derek grunts something low in the back of his throat that Stiles doesn’t hear. Peter’s smile only grows wider. Creepier. Stiles doesn’t think this can get any worse, but apparently that is a challenge to the universe because the bell dings again and Derek literally jumps out of his seat to rush over to the brunette woman standing in the doorway.

Stiles mouth falls open a little as he wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly like he wishes he’d never let her go in the first place. It’s a classic airport reunion scene and it makes his insides writhe. Stiles thinks he’s going to have to do more than just break her legs. It surprises him how much seeing Derek wrapped around someone else feels like a kick in the gut.

Derek releases her eventually and with a grim smile she drags him back to their booth. Derek’s smile is a little fucking blinding and makes Stiles’ chest hurt like he’s actually succeeded in putting a knife in it.

Irony.

“This is…” he begins.

“Laura,” she says gruffly and when she reaches her hand out, Stiles actually shakes it. A girl as pretty as that can’t possibly be a sex offender. His father actually stands up to shake her hand and this is somehow more embarrassing than the sexual innuendos he unleashed upon them earlier. 

“Derek’s sister,” she adds when she releases his father’s hand. And it suddenly clicks. Laura, the woman Finstock is always permanently bitching about, because she snaps up more clients than they do.

Laura, head of ALPHA Laura. The head honcho. The big boss. As in Derek’s sister.

Oh, fuck. 

Stiles wonders if this is meant to be some kind of family attack. But Derek seems just as surprised at their arrival as he is.

“I’m just here to pick up my uncle,” she offers as she yanks Peter out of his chair with a surprising amount of strength. 

“He’s eccentric,” she adds without bothering to lower her voice. There is definite eye rolling.

Peter frowns, but doesn’t correct her and he doesn’t struggle to break free of her grip. ALPHA leader pulling rank seems to work on him. 

“Nice to meet you all,” she says, and Stiles can hear the intense edge to her voice that Derek always has in his own. “See you soon, baby bro.”

Derek jerks his head in a shallow nod, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. This is clearly a lifelong nickname. And then she drags Peter out of IHOP like this is a totally normal thing to do. His father tips his hand in a half hearted wave and goes back to his pancakes with the level of concern of a goldfish.

Honestly is nothing sacred?

 

  
  
  
  
  


When the Sheriff drops them back home before he drives off to work, Stiles is floating in a black hole of confusion. He still can’t figure out what Derek’s trying to do and it’s sort of freaking him out. Plus, it sort of felt like Peter was trying to tell him something.

_You smell like Derek. ___

Jesus, is he on some kind of prescription drugs that increase his sense of smell or what? Stiles doesn’t have much time to think it over though, because when he walks into the kitchen to make a seriously deserved cup of coffee that'll bring on the cognitive brain functioning, he catches Isaac and Scott making out against the counter.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen and go screw somewhere else!”

They wrench apart. Isaac flushes in embarrassment and Stiles instantly zeros in on the Scott induced hickey against the pale skin of his throat. And Scott doesn’t even look sorry.

“But they burned down his hotel room,” Scott whines and Stiles is literally going to punch him in the face right now. He’s going to do it. He's doing it.

Only Derek enters the room at that exact moment and pulls him away from Scott who is swearing and trying to protect his face.

“Stiles,” he growls against his skin and the fight kind of drifts out of him to make room for all of the arousal and such. 

Stupid, sexy Derek. 

“Why are you trying to kill Scott?”

“He’s defiling the kitchen!” he protests as he struggles out of his grip. 

“We should go,” Isaac suggests evenly and Stiles is very okay with this suggestion.

Scott nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I know this place…”

“No, you do not,” Stiles cuts in. “You know no places to commit sexual acts. You are not coming home in my Dad’s police cruiser.”

Scott only smiles and Stiles will see him later when he has to bail him out of a jail cell for public sexual indecency, he just knows it. They leave quickly, but not before Scott has the nerve to reach out and take Isaac’s hand.

“Traitor!” Stiles calls out after him and it’s a testament to Scott’s intelligence that he doesn’t respond. Stiles doesn’t really want to shoot him in the face.

A car rolls into the driveway just after they leave and Derek follows him outside, both of them already tense and sensing an approaching fight. Lydia steps out of the car and Stiles feels the blood drain from his face. They are clearly screwed.

“So, it looks like you listened to what I said,” she begins airily. “Was that Scott I saw driving away with his hand down an ALPHA’s pants?”

“Lydia,” he begins because he knows he’s going to die and he’s stalling to prolong his life.

“Lydia?” Derek barks, suddenly very interested. “Lydia, who sent you the assignment to kill me, Lydia?”

Stiles stares at him blankly. And okay, how the fuck does Derek know that? They must have one hell of a hacker at ALPHA. Maybe as good as Danny. He advances on her before Stiles can pull him back and warn him of the danger.

“Who told you to put the hit on me?” he demands, crowding easily into her space. “Tell me!”

Lydia only smiles, opens the palm of her hand and blows some kind of fucked up purple powder in his face.

And then Derek drops like a stone. Stiles rushes forward and catches him before his head can hit the pavement. 

Holy shit. What just happened?

“Oh my God,” he screeches. “Did you just kill my boyf-“

The word chokes up in his throat before he can get it out, but the damage is already done. Freudian slip much? His face immediately flushes, but Lydia ignores it.

“I didn’t like what he was implying,” she explains with a shrug. “And he’s not dead. Just knocked out for an hour.”

Stiles looks down at Derek’s head, now pillowed in his lap and cannot think of anything to say. And that’s about when the motorbike roars up the driveway, carrying two leather clad individuals that look like they're in some kind of gang. And really, like he hasn't got enough shit to worry about right now?

He doesn’t recognise them until the driver takes off his helmet.

“Jackson?” he yells, incredulous, as the person behind him climbs off the bike removing his helmet also.

“Hey, assface,” Jackson responds while Danny grins at him, hand sliding out from around Jackson's waist.

“What the hell are you both doing here?”

Danny pulls a folder out of his backpack and hands it over to him. 

“The information you wanted,” he says. “And we figured Beacon Hills is the place to be at the moment. I mean, if Lydia’s here then the shit is really going down.”

Stiles does not like this development. He likes it even less when Jackson walks straight into his house like he owns it and calls out, “Hey, dickface. Where the fuck is the coffeemaker in this shithole? This better not be how you treat a house guest!”

Stiles only looks back at the unconscious ALPHA still resting in his lap, and the file in his grip whilst he ponders his entire existence. Danny claps him on the back in a comforting gesture and strides after Jackson into the house.

Lydia only smacks her hands together to clean away her roofie powder with a self satisfied smirk. Then she follows them both inside, leaving him alone in the driveway with the dude he apparently thinks is his boyfriend now.

Stiles hates his life, he really does.  
  
  
  
  



	7. Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's wolfsbane and arrows.

# Bleeding Out

# 

  


There are three things that come to Stiles’ attention during what he likes to call 'the Roofie Powder of Eternal Sleep'. Firstly, is that Lydia is apparently a lying faced liar who is more psychotic than he thought, because the powder doesn’t knock Derek out for an hour like she said.

Oh, no. Hottie McDerek hotpants is down for three hours of blissful unconsciousness; twenty minutes of them spent being dragged valiantly by Stiles inside the house so he can deposit him on the couch like a nice doting, fake boyfriend. And another five, trying to get Lydia to admit whatever the hell kind of horse tranquilliser was in that purple powder. She of course, refuses to admit anything without a lawyer present. 

Ugh.

Secondly, Stiles realises that Jackson is the worst fucking house guest on the planet. He breaks the coffeemaker in the first two minutes and then bitches about it for the next twenty whilst Danny takes the time to turn the kitchen into his own personal computer data centre. Stiles can just see this not ending well. So, he’s working his way up to encouraging them to try out a motel that hasn’t burned down where they can piss off and fuck around with someone else.

And thirdly, it’s come to his attention that he’s too chicken shit to open up the manila folder full of Derek’s personal information. It’s the perfect opportunity for it too when Derek is technically not around to stop him.

He sits on the corner of the couch with Derek’s head pillowed in his lap, because it is necessary for him to do so for reasons he hasn't come up with yet as he stares blankly down at the folder in his hands. He does nothing whilst Danny and Jackson literally fuck up the kitchen and Lydia sits in the background, surveying her handiwork with a pleased expression.

It takes about thirty minutes for him to lose his shit and that has to be a new record.

“Oh my God, you all need to get the fuck out of my house,” he growls, voice carrying through to the kitchen where he’s pretty sure modern warfare is taking place.

Lydia pokes her head into the lounge room, eyes narrowed and ready to protest, but he’s had enough and he’s not taking any more shit from her today.

“Out! NOW!” he shouts and Lydia gives him a long considering look before she stalks out the front door. 

Jackson looks like he’s about to fight about this, but Danny curls a hand over his hipbone and gently encourages his douchebag boyfriend out the front door with an apologetic shrug. As soon as they leave, he feels like he can breathe again. And then he looks down at unconscious Derek- whose face is much softer after a hit of purple roofie powder- and his insides twist a little as if to remind him that things are getting way out of fucking control.

He stares at the folder like his eyes can burn through it before he realises that’s not going to help solve his problems and opens it instead. Then retrieves all of the papers from within and starts to read.

It feels weird doing this in front of Derek- would have been weirder with a house full of ABOM-nation colleagues running around- but he’s too interested in what he’s looking at to stop.

Stiles might be getting a little obsessed.

It takes him little over an hour to comb through all of the information with his brain eagerly sifting through Derek’s life and drinking up everything he touches.

It’s very… informative, to say the least. ALPHA is clearly a family business and it’s pretty fucking obvious that the Hale’s are ruthless. Derek never misses a target.

Never.

He’d even gotten a fugitive who took off to the Arctic to escape him. The fucking _Arctic_. The Hale’s really must be bloodhounds. Stiles suddenly understands how very real the threat of Derek finding him anywhere he goes is. His MO when he’s not trying to be subtle is the good ol’ traditional throat slashing. Although the reports still have no mention of any weapons he favours. 

And Stiles has yet to see any, either.

But as he reads he notices some minor discrepancies in Derek’s MO- and seeing as Danny is so fucking efficient- he has the names of Derek’s targets and actual dates for when he killed them. There are a few strange hits scattered across a pristine record and they draw his attention, because they differ from Derek’s usual efficient throat slashing behaviour.

Because the coroner always documents these deaths as caused by an animal attack.

As subtlety goes, it works. Although, Stiles isn’t sure how Derek manages to make it appear like an animal has killed them. Claw marks and knife wounds look very different and it gets him thinking hard for several minutes. Hard enough that he writes down the dates that Derek covered up his kills as animal attacks and he tries to figure out a pattern. It’s a lot fucking harder than it seems and he’s too paranoid to ask Danny for his help.

So he lets it wrinkle his brain for several minutes and then he keeps reading. Derek may as well be a dead weight against him. The warmth against his thigh is both comforting and distracting while he analyses Derek’s assassination style. He understands why he’s the best at ALPHA. Derek is like a hunter stalking down his prey. He clearly possesses tracking skills that will rival any forest ranger. Especially, if he can find a dude in the freaking Arctic.

In fact, Derek can find anybody anywhere. No terrain it seems, can stop him. And now Stiles doesn’t quite understand how the fuck he got away from him in New York in the first place.

Unless, Derek intentionally let him escape.

But why would he do that? Or is Stiles really just as good as he thinks he is? It’s way more fucking puzzling than he expects and by the time he finishes reading everything he feels exhausted. All he has to show for it are the random dates scrawled across a piece of paper that he couldn't decipher to save his skin.

It’s a little depressing. But he stuffs the folder down the side of the couch and starts creepy staring at Derek to pass the time, because he’s fucking hot and it’s a very good show to watch. Derek’s long sleeved shirt has gone a bit array and Stiles has full view of his damn fucking collarbones and the lickable angle of his neck as his head lies softly in his lap.

It takes all of his restraint not to touch, because hot damn, he wants to. Jesus. He can even see the indent of his abs as his chest rises and falls. The tortuous angle of his hips from where his shirt rode up and exposed everything and not enough. God.

He gets the munchies instead of an awkward boner which is a nice change. But the urge to go out shooting for a bit to let off some steam sounds like a very good option at the moment as well. The sexual frustration is kind of killing him a little bit. It’s harder to jerk off when Derek is in the house with him. Because half of the time Derek’s name slips out and that is so not a good idea right now, seriously. He can’t bail on him, mainly because he’s having so much fun with his uninterrupted perving, but also because he doesn’t want Derek to wake up confused and on a murderous rampage.

Although, that might fix his Lydia issues once and for all. Or Derek could just come straight for him. Because he can find him anywhere. At the three hour mark when Stiles is seriously starting to doubt that Lydia shouldn’t be locked away for the safety of innocent bystanders and general human kind- because she kind of killed a dude with purple girly powder- Derek stirs.

Thank God.

Only, there’s no gentle drifting into consciousness like he did when they were friendly spooning and snuggling and generally not killing each other like they should be doing. Oh, no. Derek literally jack knifes into waking, jerking off the couch with a disturbed snarl of rage. Stiles’ fingers have accidentally drifted into his hair and they tug when Derek pulls away, wrenching Stiles along with him with a huff of surprise.

Derek’s eyes are red when he twists around and seizes Stiles’ thigh with a harsh growl that is both parts defensive and filled with the uncontrollable urge to kill. Stiles grunts in pain when something sharp digs into his flesh through the denim of his jeans, shredding his skin. The sound does something to Derek, because he releases him immediately, withdrawing whatever weapon he totally just stabbed him with and Stiles’ wavers slightly as the sharp tang of blood fills his nostrils.

Derek looks calmer. His face pale with shock and the after effects of what Lydia did to him, but when he reaches for him, Stiles still flinches, anyway. And for some unpredictably ridiculous reason that seems to make Derek furious. He jerks his hand away in an enraged abortive movement, nostrils flaring wildly.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles demands, pressing his palm flat over his thigh to apply pressure and staunch the heavy bleeding. 

The biting pain is enough to tell him it’s not life threatening, but it still hurts like a bitch. It’s probably not even that deep. But it might leave a hell of a scar.

Derek blazes out of the room with aggravated purpose, leaving Stiles alone in bewildered silence as the blood slowly stains his jeans. He doesn’t have the chance to think about what he should be doing about this, before Derek storms back inside. He returns with bandages- though of course Stiles never told him where the first aid kit is- and dumps them on the couch before going straight for Stiles’ belt buckle like a man on a mission.

Naturally, Stiles loses his shit.

“Whoa, there cowboy,” he gasps, smacking at his hands and attempting to scramble away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking your pants off,” Derek snaps as if it wasn’t even his intention to seduce him with comments like that or harden him the fuck up when Stiles is trying so hard to play nice. And unaroused. “Or do you want me to rip your jeans to shreds?”

Stiles scowls. “Looks like you already did that to my leg, asshole. And I can take my own pants off.”

Derek ignores him and Stiles swear his fingers brush against the skin of his hip on purpose before he gets the zipper down. He flushes, hand still on the wound on his thigh and trying his best not to get off on the fact that Derek is actually taking his pants off, holy God. This is like instant boner for him and it takes all of his power to keep himself uninterested which is why he doesn’t notice when Derek removes his hand and lets the jeans pool around his ankles.

Or when he presses his own warm hand against the wound, burning into his thigh and way too close to his business that should be comfortable. 

“This’ll hurt,” he mutters, and Stiles barely hears him. Too focused on the sight of Derek on his knees and right in front of his junk. It’s like the universe is playing out his fantasies and then telling him he can’t get off on it.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the view. That is until Derek pours rubbing alcohol into the wound to sterilise it and abruptly his leg is fucking on fire. He shouts out a protest, but it turns into a strangled moan when Derek accidentally brushes against his cock and his mouth comes over his hipbone, warm and wet, and sucks a bruise into his skin. Marking him.

Stiles’ head tips back with a groan, losing all pretence that he isn’t fucking hard and aching for it and doesn’t notice when Derek finishes applying the bandages and rocks to his feet again. He's kind of lost in his own erection at the moment.

Derek doesn't comment, but glances down at his shirt and notices the left over purple stains from Lydia’s powder and his eyes narrow before Stiles can beg for him to finish the job. He notices the mood change considerably and nearly weeps at the loss as Derek rips his shirt off without explanation, briefly getting his hopes up that this will end in hanky panky after all, before he walks off.

Well, fuck. Stiles stumbles out of his jeans and follows him in his underwear, erection obvious, as he lurches after him into the kitchen. He doesn't care what's going on, he just wants Derek to stop fucking teasing him already. 

Stiles watches in confusion as Derek locates the matches they keep in the drawer for when the power gets temperamental and shorts out- without explaining how he knows where to find them- before he grabs the rubbing alcohol. Then dumps a generous amount on his shirt and promptly lights it on fire.

He throws it into the sink immediately as it goes up in flames and Stiles just stands there with his mouth open as Derek quickly puts the flames out.

“What,” he gaps when Derek then goes outside to throw the shirt into the trash. 

When he storms back inside, his gaze roams over Stiles’ body and he’s thankful that the shirt burning effectively killed any sexual excitement because he’s not sure he’s in the mood for explaining awkward boners or anything right now.

Though it’d be freaking great if Derek did.

“Derek,” he begins, frustrated and confused. “What?...”

“Aconite,” Derek spits though he’s clearly saying it to himself. Stiles frowns. He’s watched enough supernatural films and read enough books to know that’s…

“Wolfsb…?” he begins, but Derek is suddenly crowding into his space and pushing him up against the edge of the counter. Making his heart explode into rapid beats. His blood pulses within him, heat climbing into his face when Derek settles his arms on either side of the counter, caging him in.

“Are you hurt?” he demands, and it’s such a bizarre question for him to be asking that Stiles just kind of stands there and breathes shallowly. Absolutely mentally wrecked by whatever the hell Derek is pulling.

“Stiles,” he growls, warning now and before he can answer, Derek’s nose is pressing against the hollow of his throat and sliding across his skin.

Stiles’ breathing is laboured now as Derek’s lips brush wetly against his throat and his cock is very much interested in whoever the fuck is screwing around with his arousal so much in the span of several minutes. And then Derek’s teeth slide across his throat, tantalising, as if he’s chasing the taste of something, tongue savouring his skin. Stiles is groaning, hips seeking the press of Derek’s own, but he holds him down and keeps him in place.

Stiles’ incoherent murmur of frustration morphs into a moan when Derek’s teeth clamp over his throat and bite down harshly. Not enough to break the skin or even hurt that much, but enough for Stiles to lose it. He's never been much for biting, but damn Derek’s discovered a kink because his precum has actually soaked his underwear a little, he's so fucking aching to be touched and he’s never been so desperate for an orgasm in his life.

And he’s fucking close too. If Derek keeps doing that with his teeth...

His tongue soothes over the burn of it and the knowledge that it will take weeks to fade from his skin is enough to make Stiles brave enough to slide his fingers into Derek’s hair and tug him forward in an attempt to push their mouths together. But Derek suddenly backs off like his work is finished, leaving Stiles a hard, flushed and incoherent mess against the kitchen counter. And oh shit, he’s such a hypocrite, he’s defiling his father’s kitchen right now. 

“Oh my God,” he groans when Derek turns to leave without any explanation whatsoever to whatever the fuck just happened right then. 

“You kill me.”

Stiles can tell that Derek is leaving to exact some revenge. He has something big planned for Lydia when he finds her, Stiles knows, and for once he decides not to get involved. Or try to stop him. Both Lydia and Derek can take care of themselves. And clearly he and Derek could do with some space. Even if his cock is thinking the exact opposite.

Derek turns to grin at him but it’s wild, dangerous and a little too seductive for his liking.

“That’s the point,” he replies and Stiles is so not okay with half defiling his father’s kitchen and being left high and dry and aching for something that apparently his hand will only be satisfying.

It’s the principle of the thing.

 

  
  
  
  
  


After a steady jerk off session which lasts an embarrassingly short time with a lot of raspy, breathless repeats of Derek’s name for revenge, Stiles decides to go out and shoot for a bit to get his mind off everything .

There’s woods close-by where he can pose his sniper rifle off as legalised hunting, as long as nobody sees him and they don’t listen to the sounds of the shots too closely. So he retrieves his rifle case from the expert place that he hid it- to make sure his dad didn't accidentally kill himself or find out about his secret proclivity towards precision weapons.

Underneath the house seemed like a good idea, but when he finally crawls out from the small space he used to play in when he was a kid, he sees the error of his ways. Mainly, because he’s covered in spider webs and dirt and he kind of looks like a homeless person, but whatever.

As soon as he has the heavy weight of the rifle case in his hand, something in him settles with the terrifying ease that Derek touching him seems to do and he jogs leisurely through his backyard and climbs the fence.

It’s quicker into the woods this way, plus less people will be able to see him and ask questions and he doesn’t really want to kill his neighbours who he’s grown up with in order to silence them.

That’s probably going to destroy some sense of his childhood.

It takes a good hour. Half of it hiking, the other half feeling sorry for his neglected cock and pissed off at Derek for failing to kill him and get this stupid shit over with already. Because now he’s pretty certain Derek’s not going to kill him. Only sleep attack him and even then, he barely wounded him.

He missed the femoral artery and Stiles knows it was on purpose.

Derek doesn’t want to kill him.

Stiles doesn’t want to kill Derek.

He’s pretty sure they both want to fuck each other.

So why the hell is Derek cockblocking him? And why the hell won’t he agree to a truce? Stiles wonders if maybe he should ask again. A lot has happened since the first time he brought it up, maybe…

Shit. Stiles suddenly realises how fucking ridiculous he’s being. Just because they’re not killing each other, doesn’t mean they’re not meant to. Finstock pretty much implied that was the solution to this mess.

Do ALPHA and ABOM-nation _want _them to kill each other? Is there some other scheme at work here? Stiles considers it as he lowers his case to the forest floor, and starts to assemble his SR-25.__

He drifts into the weapon and any other thoughts become background noise as he works. When he’s finished, he slings the rifle over his shoulder and then starts to climb the tree he’s chosen that will support his weight all the way to the top.

It’s a good climb and it gets his muscles shifting and working in a way that makes him feel powerful as he reaches for the next branch, nimbly scaling and watching the floor disappear beneath him. He ends up fairly high, twenty metres at least, nestled in the perch he spotted on his walk through the trees. Half crouching and stretching his legs out comfortably as he reaches around behind his back and brings his rifle forward.

It’s a steady familiar weight within his hands and he sets to work.

There are a lot of birds in the trees and he’s brought several rocks to get them moving. The first one he throws slams into the branches a good distance away and the birds scatter, shrieking in fright.

Stiles fires immediately. Six successive shots that explode though the natural silence of the woods and shatter any illusions of calm.

Six birds continue flapping away, screeching into the sky.

Stiles grins and adjusts his grip to mark the tree beside him with his knife with six tallys. It’s so easy to shoot a bird with a rifle. Stiles prefers the challenge of shooting at them and trying not to hit them. Getting as close as he can but missing. It wastes a lot of bullets but requires a lot of skill and that's just the kind of task he enjoys doing.

The birds probably don’t appreciate it. But better being pissed than dead.

Stiles pulls his arm back and prepares to throw another rock again.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  


He loses hours and by the time he realises it's getting late, his tally is at a hundred and twenty six. His legs have cramped up a little from being in one spot for too long. His wrists are sore and his thigh is throbbing, but he’s never felt better.

That is, until he’s halfway through scrambling down the tree when he hears footsteps nearby. He doesn’t think. He drops the rest of the way and rolls into a crouch. Then whips his rifle around, ready to fire in one smooth movement.

An arrow flies through the trees and he knocks it off it’s trajectory with the butt of his rifle so that it embeds in the tree behind him. He glances back for a moment, but his jaw drops. Because he recognises the arrow. He also recognises the dark hair and willowy frame too when she sprints into the clearing, another arrow already notched and expecting wounded prey.

She doesn’t miss.

Usually.

“Allison!” he gasps out, cocking his rifle in a silent warning that if she tries to attack him again he will defend himself.

Her eyes widen. “Stiles!” she cries, and quickly lowers her crossbow.

He straightens from his crouch when it’s obvious she isn’t trying to kill him. But he can't believe that she's in Beacon Hills. 

“Who the hell did you think it was?” he demands. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

A guilty expression briefly flickers across her features. “Um, I had an assignment in West Virginia and I thought well, now might be a nice time to visit family.”

“On the other side of the country?” Stiles questions and even she must know how ridiculous that sounds, because she straightens her shoulders and her fingers twitch reflexively on the trigger of her crossbow. 

“Do you have family in Beacon Hills? I thought Chris lives near HQ?” he asks, wondering how the hell he’d never run into her before if she isn’t spouting utter bullshit. Her father works for ABOM-nation too and Stiles figured he lived near HQ, but he hasn't actually seen him since he took time off after his wife died a couple months ago.

She shifts her stance, looking guilty as hell and Stiles just knows she’s lying. “He lives a couple towns over. We just met here.”

“So your Dad's here too? What, purely for the Beacon Hills experience?” he scoffs. “Are you here for Scott?”

Her eyes widen further. “Scott’s here?” she asks genuinely surprised and okay, what the fuck is going on right now?

Why are all of Stiles’ fucking colleagues in his home town? Greenberg better not show his damn face, because Stiles will shoot it.

“I’m sorry, I shot at you,” she says, changing the subject before Stiles can question her further. “I was hunting a wolf.”

Stiles frowns. “There are no wolves in California,” he tells her, suspicious of what she was really doing as her expression darkens.

Allison smiles tightly. “Must have been a mountain lion then,” she mutters glancing away. “I didn’t get a good look at it.”

And that is just more bullshit, because everyone at ABOM-nation knows that she has the eyes of a hawk. He manages a smile and reaches down to pick up his empty rifle case.

“Good luck with that,” he offers. 

And he knows she’s realised that he doesn’t trust her enough to disassemble his rifle and leave himself defenceless in front of her. He pauses a minute as he adjusts the strap slung across his shoulder, thinking.

“You’re not still into Scott, are you?” he asks, because the last thing he needs right now is to deal with Scott drama when he has his own to deal with.

Allison startles and shakes her head, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Of course not. We broke up months ago, Stiles.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, just wondering.”

He steps around her, almost feeling the tension rolling off her in waves before she hurries after him.

“I’ll walk you home,” she offers. 

And it’s sweet really, but it’s kind of fucking sad because he’s pretty sure she’s not offering out of friendship and the last thing he needs is for the both of them to walk in on Isaac and Scott screwing in his living room or something.

“Allison, I have an unbroken record of kills. I’m a fucking expert marksmen. It’s nice of you to offer, but…”

She smiles at him and pats him on the shoulder and it feels tense and uncomfortable like maybe they’ve become enemies and he didn’t really notice it happening before it was too late to stop it.

“I’d love to meet your dad,” she says and this time she’s smiling for real and the weird tension sort of disappears. 

Stiles isn’t sure what he’s missed but he definitely wants to find out.

“No, you don’t,” he tells her and means it. “Trust me.”

She laughs, but her eyes already say she doesn’t.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  


It turns out Allison meeting his father is a very bad idea. Derek still isn’t back when they make it home to his father’s house and he sends her inside with an excuse after she places her crossbow in a safe spot while he hides his rifle case beneath the house.

He hadn’t wanted to hide it in front of her, disassembling it whilst she’d stood there at the edge of the woods with him and a fully loaded crossbow had been stressed enough. 

When he hurries back into the house after being covered in more dirt and cobwebs, it’s to find Allison miraculously fixing the coffeemaker and pouring them both a mug.

He accepts it gratefully, and takes a seat across from her, trying to ignore the urge to check for poison.

“So, you and Derek, huh?” she says eventually, and Stiles chokes on his mouthful of coffee.

“What?” he sputters. “What gave you that idea?”

She smiles sadly at him and points at his throat. He’s confused all of two seconds, before his fingers slide against the tender area of his neck where Derek bit him and left a giant hickey. His face flushes, but before he can open his mouth to explain his father comes barrelling into the kitchen.

“Honey, I’m home!” he calls before stopping at the sight of them in the kitchen. 

He looks almost disappointed and Stiles is certain that was a ploy aimed at Derek to make him uncomfortable. Jesus, his father is a menace.

“Well, this is awkward,” the Sheriff offers, depositing his keys on the table. “You already cheating on Derek?”

Allison gasps, surprised, but Stiles shoots her a warning look. “Dad, this is Allison,” he introduces. “Scott’s ex girlfriend.”

He grins and reaches out to shake her hand and she takes it, after giving it a suspicious look like his father might spontaneously combust or something. 

“It’s lovely to meet you” he says. “You are aware that Scott is also into dudes now aren’t you?”

“Dad,” Stiles groans. 

He’d been planning on maybe breaking it to her gently. Jesus. Allison’s face kind of tightens, but she manages an awkward smile.

“Um,” she replies, nearly falling out of her seat in her haste to get away. “I’ve got to be somewhere. I’ll see you soon Stiles. It was nice to meet you, sir.”

The Sheriff smiles at her. “You too, sweetheart. You should come and join us at dinner tomorrow.”

Stiles nearly starts crying. “Dad, no,” he begs. “No more interrogation dinners.”

Allison uses that as her cue to get the fuck out and Stiles is eternally thankful for that. He waits until the front door closes before he turns on his dad. “You are the absolute worst,” he tells him. “This is an extreme form of bad parenting.”

The Sheriff only grins slyly. “Oh, bite me,” he says in a mockery of Stiles’ voice. 

He groans again and abandons his coffee for the safety of his bedroom, deciding it’s not worth it.

“Dinner’s at six sharp,” his father calls after him, and he knows its best for everyone that he doesn’t reply.

He only just makes it to his bed, collapsing tiredly onto it as Derek comes through the window.

“Go away,” he groans, not even bothering to see if he's here to kill him. “’M tired.”

Derek’s fingers slide along the nape of his neck, pressing experimentally on the bruise he created earlier, eliciting a soft gasp from Stiles' mouth.

“Then sleep,” he commands and Stiles sighs, melting into the touch, utterly content.

"How's Laura?" he asks instead, unable to resist showing he knew exactly where Derek was. 

That, and he called to make sure Lydia actually wasn't dead when he went shooting and she said she hadn't seen Derek at all. Plus, Isaac and Scott are off screwing somewhere so it's wasn't hard to guess where Derek went. Though, it is hard to guess why.

Derek sounds surprised and Stiles is somehow amused by that. "Fine. How was shooting?" he retorts, and oh.

So they _are _still keeping tabs on each other. It shouldn't make Stiles hot in his pants, it really shouldn't.__

 _ _And that's when the the doorbell rings.__

 _ _

“No, no, no!” he shouts jumping to his feet and enjoying Derek’s startled expression as he storms towards the window so he can look below. 

“I’ve had enough. Every fucking person is already in this goddamn town! I don’t give a fuck who the hell it is, nobody is answering that damn door and I’m going to fucking sleep!”

Derek actually stiffens, cocking his head to the side as if someone is yelling something in his ear which Stiles is, but he’s on the opposite side of the room. This is more Derek my-bones-don't-stay-broken-and-aconite-knocks-me-out weirdness.

Sighing, he glances down. The window gives a prime view of the front porch and whoever is stupid enough to stand there when Stiles wants to shoot first and ask questions later.

He recognises the short scruffy hair and the self satisfied grin, disguising blood vessel bursting levels of rage. He recognises even more when the man catches sight of him and waves, frighteningly accurately, in his direction.

“What the fuck,” he groans and Derek comes to stand by his shoulder and they both look down at him.

He can’t believe this, really. This shit is getting out of hand.

It’s fucking Finstock.

They can expect Greenberg within the hour.

__

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Call To Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are flash grenades. And flashy entrances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I'm sorry. Second of all... I'M SORRY. THIS SEXUAL TENSION IS KILLING ME TOO. LIKE SERIOUSLY.

# Call To Arms

  


Stiles can hear his father’s footsteps from his bedroom as he approaches the front door. The door with the head of ABOM-nation, aka his assassination boss, on the other side of it. Stiles doesn’t think. He wrenches the window open and jumps straight the fuck out of it. He has a second to enjoy Finstock’s shocked face, before he lands gracefully into the garden. 

He doesn't bother with greetings. Stiles takes two steps and reaches out, snagging his fingers around the front of Finstock’s shirt and attempting to drag him an entire universe away from his two worlds that are suddenly colliding.

“Fucking move,” he snarls, barely getting him a step before the door swings open.

Oh, sweet Jesus, fuck.

His father raises his eyebrows at the position they’re in and Stiles mind spins into overdrive to come up with an explanation for why he’s hanging around a dude that’s his father’s age. And not his fake boyfriend, Derek. Is a fake love triangle too out of the question here? Probably, when the thought of love and Finstock in the same cosmos literally makes him want to wrench his penis from his body and then light it on fire for good measure. 

Nope. There will be no fake love triangle. But he needs an explanation. Fast

“Stiles,” his father begins, in his no-nonsense-I-mean-it voice and glances between the two of them. His I’m-a-Sheriff-and-therefore-everything-is-illegal radar, climbing off the charts. He’s not stupid, Stiles figured he’d catch on eventually.

He’d just wanted a bit more fucking time, that’s all. And this is certainly not the way he pictured it going. Stiles opens his mouth to explain. Only in order to prepare to do that, he glances away from Finstock for all of one second.

And that’s probably the biggest fucking mistake of his life. Because that gives just enough time for Finstock to wrench free and punch his dad right in the jaw, knocking him out stone cold. Stiles lets out a strangled, outraged sound as his father keels over into the rose bushes without another word.

“You’re welcome kid,” he barks. 

And no fucking way in hell, he’s letting that slide. “Don’t know how the fuck you’re going to explain…”

Stiles doesn't wait for excuses. His muscles tighten in preparation and he kicks spitefully at the vulnerable joint in Finstock’s leg. As he crumples, Stiles finds purchase against the back of his neck just enough to apply enough force as he wrenches his entire body forward and smashes Finstock’s face into the concrete, hearing with distinct satisfaction, the crunching of bone.

He doesn’t let up after that, though. Instead, he leans down, pressing him hard into the concrete with his hands, whilst pinning Finstock’s legs with his own thighs and making it impossible for him to escape. His boss is abruptly at his mercy. And there’s no way in hell that Stiles is looking for a raise right now.

Finstock groans wetly through what Stiles’ suspects is the blood that’s gushed into his open mouth, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. He could have a broken neck, and Stiles’ grip probably wouldn’t falter. 

Stiles doesn’t give a shit right now. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s going to kill him.

Because Finstock hurt his dad.

And nobody hurts his dad.

“What the fuck was that?” he growls, grip punishing as he glances over at his father who thankfully landed on the soft leafy part of the rose bush and not the thorns. Thank God.

Stiles doesn’t know how he would’ve explained all of the scratches when he comes to. In fact, he has no idea how to explain anything to him at the moment. He’s still unconscious, though. Finstock really hit him hard. Enough that he could have easily injured his spinal chord. His father could have _died. _Stiles’ fingers wrap around the front of Finstock’s throat, and begin to squeeze.__

He doesn’t even really think about what he’s doing. Stiles just reacts instinctively. Someone hurt his dad and that someone has to die. Finstock sputters and tries to buck him off, but he is not fucking having it.

Not anymore.

He hears the soft thud of Derek’s feet, announcing his arrival as he lands beside him. Feels the steady press of the warmth from his hand, abruptly burning into his shoulder. Distantly, he acknowledges it. But all he’s seeing right now is red. Blood red.

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles’ cocks his head, considers distantly how difficult it would be to hide Finstock’s body. “You sure you want to go rogue for this?”

Rogue. Jesus, Finstock has made him rogue. Stiles’ grip tightens further. 

“I’m thinking about it,” he admits.

A few tense seconds pass before Finstock starts gurgling while he’s slowly being asphyxiated and Stiles finally releases him, pushing him away with a sound of disgust. He’s not gentle about it either, relinquishing his grip so Finstock’s face crashes into the concrete again. He gasps, dragging air greedily back into his lungs, and Stiles kicks him in the ribs if only to encourage the process.

Because he’s obviously trying for employee of the month. Derek’s hand is still on his shoulder, having moved with him when he did and Stiles tries not to get distracted by the pressure of it against his shirt, soaking into his flesh.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Stiles manages after he’s gotten himself under control again. “Are you the one who’s been sending ABOM-nation to my Dad’s fucking house?”

Finstock coughs and rolls over onto his back, revealing his bloodied face and wipes gingerly at his mouth. His nose is still bleeding freely and Stiles can see the patch of blood it’s left on the concrete, but it’s in a detached clinical way while he wonders how long it’ll take for the blood to stain.

“So, I put the address in the company newsletter this week,” Finstock says sounding like he has a bad cold. “With all these ALPHA’s arriving, we need a chance to even the odds." 

Stiles resists the urge to kick him again. "So, you send them to my _house? _What the fuck happened to employee confidentiality?"__

 _ _"A wager happened," Finstock tells him, spitting more blood from his mouth. "There’s a pool going at HQ to see which one of you dies first. It’s at a hundred grand so far.”__

Stiles blinks. “A hundred…” 

His hands tighten into fists as if he’s preparing to strike the head of ABOM-nation again. It’s pretty fucking tempting.

His dad is still totally unconscious in the rose bushes. There should definitely be more blood.

“Are you telling me that I have ABOM-nation and ALPHA, swarming all over the goddamn town over some fucking bet?”

Finstock only shrugs and Stiles punches him in the gut this time while Derek does nothing to intervene, because he possesses some fucking sense. He gives Finstock a moment to reconsider his answer as he wheezes shallowly, the breath knocked out of him.

“This is not helping the outcome of your suspension!” Finstock barks, but he’s all talk and he makes no move to get to his feet. 

“I sent Lydia out on assignment. Everyone else is here on their own time. There are a lot of people invested in how this goes down. But I wanted to see if you two really are shacking up for myself.”

Stiles feels the heady flush of warmth creep over his cheeks, before he can stop it and Finstock takes it all in with a demure expression before he starts laughing manically. This time when Stiles punches him in the mouth, he breaks a couple teeth.

Derek huffs out what Stiles’ suspects to be a laugh and drags him away from Finstock who’s moaning like a goddamn soft cock. Normally, he would fight anybody trying to overpower him, but the manoeuvre presses his ass against Derek’s crotch in the best way and he kind of enjoys the position too much to pull free. Plus, it's Derek, so apparently his cock is the biggest influence in his decision making process.

Derek drags him over to where his dad is unconscious in the garden, releasing Stiles’ from his grip before he lifts his father’s body easily, but unmistakably gently, onto his shoulder. Normally, Stiles would insist on carrying him himself, but dragging Derek onto the couch earlier really drained his strength reserves more than he intended, so he ignores Finstock rolling around on the ground in pain, in favour of watching Derek’s ass as he walks back into the house with the Sheriff.

He turns back to Finstock. “Touch my dad again and I’ll fucking kill you,” he promises, meaning it.

“Yeah, yeah I get it. You’re fucking insane,” Finstock grumbles. But he has enough fucking brains to climb to his feet and make a hasty retreat off Stiles’ fucking property when he takes a step towards him again.

Although, that in no way means he won’t return as soon as he’s mopped his face up. He is Stiles’ boss, after all. Jesus. Stiles doesn’t want to think about how royally screwed his life is right now, because he’s pretty sure it’s only going to make his head hurt.

  
  
  
  
  
  


"What the hell is he even doing here?” Stiles wonders as he helps Derek gently lower his father onto the couch.

It’s more of a frustrated musing than a question, so he’s surprised when he answers.

“He’s here for Laura,” Derek mutters. “She’s normally impossible to track down. This is the longest time she’s been in one place for. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to eliminate the competition.”

It shouldn’t be that awkward for Derek to explain, but for some reason Stiles shifts his feet like he’s embarrassed or ashamed of his boss’ behaviour. Or ABOM-nation. For once, he wishes he wasn't affiliated with them. Derek doesn’t seem to notice as he straightens the Sheriff out into a more comfortable position.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Stiles offers unthinkingly, throat dry as he watches the care Derek uses towards his father. It shouldn't make his chest tighten or his heart beat faster, but it does. 

Oh Jesus, it does. Derek’s shoulders tense from his position over the Sheriff and Stiles watches his back with interest and wonders if he crossed another invisible Derek line. He opens his mouth to take the words back, but he doesn’t get the chance because Derek is crossing the room, seizing onto his shirt and kissing him. 

Fucking _finally. ___

He only has a second of startled unresponsiveness, before he’s latching onto Derek, clutching at him and desperately sliding his tongue into Derek's open mouth as he deepens the kiss, hands scrambling to find purchase on hard muscle.

Stiles pushes Derek up against the nearby wall, distantly aware that they’re totally making out with his practically comatose father in the room, but they’ve been dancing around this for far too fucking long and goddamnit, he wants to touch. So he does, fingers sliding easily beneath Derek’s shirt, palms pressing flat against his chest. He can feel Derek’s thrumming heart beneath his hands, the way it sputters when he worries Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth.

And it’s fucking fantastic. God, he wants so much more.

He pushes forward, grinding their hips together and Derek seizes his waist, lifting him into the air so that his legs automatically lock around his hips and tighten. He walks them forward, warm hands cupping Stiles' ass before he lowers them to the floor. One hand cradling the back of his head in order to stop him slamming against the carpet.

Stiles distantly knows this is escalating quickly when he suddenly finds himself on his back- in the presence of his father, no less- with Derek hovering over him but he’s too busy removing Derek’s shirt as he leisurely twists his hips so that Derek's erection presses tormentingly against his own. Derek nips at his throat, sucking further hickeys into his neck before finding the one he made earlier. He goes to fucking town, tongue sliding across flesh as Stiles groans at the sensation. Hands fumbling for the zipper of Derek’s jeans as he offers more of his throat to Derek’s heated mouth.

Oh God, that mouth. He barely gets the zipper down before Derek’s teeth are sinking into his flesh again. It feels like a punch in the gut and Stiles is so out of it for a second he thinks he might have already orgasmed, but Derek grinds down into him again and hello, this show is definitely on the road.

“Oh God, oh God,” he gasps, fingers digging into Derek’s biceps as if to hold him still for a moment so his brain can actually catch up with whatever the fuck is happening. His brain needs time to process because it's suddenly deteriorating into Derek induced goo. 

Because honest to God, Derek is half out of his jeans and Stiles can see the considerable bulge of his cock which looks very fucking happy to see him and he swears all of his sexually depraved dreams are coming true. His wish made upon a fucking star is granted and if there is not a cock sighting in the next few minutes he reserves the right to continue considering Derek's penis to be some kind of mythical creature that only makes appearances once every blue moon and only in the presence of true greatness.

Stiles lets out a garbled sound as Derek ruts into him and seriously, he’s about to make a mess of his pants like a fucking teenager if he doesn’t stop doing that. Derek presses a bruising kiss to his collarbone, and somehow manages to get his hand between all of that glorious friction and into Stiles' jeans.

He pants in relief when Derek finally wraps a hand around him. Oh, holy God he's finally touching his junk and Stiles thinks he might want to cry. This is so much better than beating off to pretty, naked blue toweless images of Derek, crying out his name as he spills into his hand. He thinks it's more or less his duty to tell Derek as much when he squeezes, applying just the right amount of pressure as his hand gloriously encircles his cock. 

"You think I don't know?" Derek gasps into the hollow of his throat. "You think I can't smell it hours later? God, Stiles, you're _drenched _in it."__

 _ _Fuck, that shit. It's too much. Too hot. Too fast. Too much Derek at once. God, how has he even lasted this long? His arms flutter wildly against the unyielding pressure of muscle until he can’t take it anymore and he jerks his fingers away, attempting to keep his shit together long enough to get fully undressed.__

 _ _

'Fuck, fuck," he murmurs trying to squirm away and give Derek more all at once. 

Instead, his fingers catch on the edge of the couch beside him and suddenly there’s paper spilling across his face and chest. 

Oh, no. 

He knows exactly what that is. And Derek is about to find out, too. Goddamn, he thought he’d stuffed them deeper into the couch than that. Derek huffs out a laugh, as if he somehow finds Stiles' clumsy efforts endearing before he glances at the one closest to his face and passingly reads a few lines. The grin abruptly slides off his face.

Stiles’ stomach drops away and now he wishes to God that he’d burned that manila folder after he’d read it. Derek- honest to God- tenses, then pulls off without a word and Stiles knows he’s in deep shit.

“No, no, no,” he grunts, attempting pointlessly to pull him back. “More nakedness, please.”

But the mood has apparently been killed stone dead. Derek folds his arms and that is the biggest red light to ever render him blue balled. It's clearly a no-go. Stiles’ head tips back against the carpet and lets out a highly sexually frustrated groan. This is honestly getting to be too much. He’s totally gone past the blue balls stage. Now it’s more like frostbitten balls.

And that is so not fucking okay. Whatever, he's just gonna have to deal with it.

“You researched me?” Derek asks, and there’s an edge to his voice that sounds maddeningly like betrayal. Almost like he's hurt to discover that Stiles is actually doing his job or at least trying to, anyway.

Stiles’ eyes cannot seem to draw away from the open zone that is Derek’s unbuttoned jeans and awaiting erection. Although, it's flagged a little but he still tries for his benefit.

“It was pretty standard stuff,” he says slowly. “Know thy enemy and all. I mean, we were trying to kill each other, Derek.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow together and suddenly he’s readjusting himself, buttoning his pants and this is so not how people get naked. It’s not how Stiles envisioned the evening ending, at all. He was hoping for more of the sweaty, naked, sprawled across one another with bone deep level of satisfaction after nearly impossible feats of sexual performance variety.

“Were?”

And okay, Stiles is not willing to admit how much that fucking hurts him more than it should have. Ouch, dude. Apparently things cannot be solved via sexual intercourse.

He should make a note of that.

“Oh my God, are you seriously trying to kill me by fucking my brains out?” he demands, feeling he deserves to know if there are any hidden murderous motives here before he gets his freak on. If he's ever getting his freak on, at this point.

And it’s totally disappointing, because he’d actually believed that they were past all of the attempted murder and everything.

Derek’s face, for all it’s worth, actually tightens up and grimaces like it’s taking a lot of self control to stop screwing Stiles into the carpet in the presence of his father. It’s not- I’m not going to kill you, because I’d prefer we fuck senselessly, instead- but, it’s enough to gently stroke Stiles’ ego. And he feels less of an urge to lash out irrationally and break Derek’s ribs.

“Stop researching me,” Derek growls ignoring his words. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Stiles pushes at his chest, hard enough that it forces Derek off of him and climbs angrily to his feet. 'If you know what’s good for you' is basically the biggest go for it that he might as well have put it on a billboard. He’s sure Derek’s already realised the colossal fucking mistake he’s just made. But it's too late. Because now Stiles is highly aroused and pissed off- not generally a winning state for his already questionable personality.

“I was going to drop it,” he mutters low and harsh, voice unfamiliar even to his own ears. “Because I thought, we were-“

Derek’s breathing is loud and says more than his lack of actual words does. Stiles can hear it in every lungful of air like he’s weaving an invisible pattern he can’t quite see yet. But the silence still cuts him to the bone. 

There's suddenly so much space between them that wasn't there before. Stiles grunts, and tightens his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out to touch again because that would be fucking stupid. 

“You can fucking forget it,” he spits. “You are not touching my dick until I find out what the hell you’re trying to hide.”

It's tense. An we-almost fucked-in-front-of-your-unconscious-father sort of tension which Stiles doesn't feel the need to fill. He sort of wants Derek to leave, but then stupidly he doesn't. It's a mixed fucking bag. 

Derek doesn’t get the chance to respond before a figure jumps through the living room window. _Through _the fucking window. Stiles gapes at them as the glass explodes inwards, scattering in all directions as the figure lands with the sure-footedness and the ease of one walking through an open doorway.__

But they also smash heavily into Derek, in what from their earlier swiftness, cannot be seen as coincidence, shoulder pushing heavily into his back and Stiles does nothing when Derek goes down hard at his feet. 

It seems kind of like the universe has taken a bit of poetic license for his own planned revenge when he looks at Derek wonderfully sprawled there and he’s not one to stand in the way of the universe. Although, he is one to stand in the way of random people smashing through his living room window. 

The man shakes chunks of glass from his hair like a dog, but he recovers quickly, moving into the living room with purpose like his entrance wasn’t meant to raise any sort of fucking alarm. And that’s when Stiles recognises him.

“Oh my God,” he gasps and Peter grins at him. “Creepy uncle in my house! How the hell is your creepy uncle in my house? Did you tell him where I live?”

Derek pushes himself up until he’s on his knees in front of him, and looks pretty pissed so that’s probably a no. Peter’s just a big fucking stalker.

“Peter-“ Derek growls, and apparently from his tone he’s not in the mood for anyone fucking with him at the moment. His goddamn loss.

But Peter doesn’t stop. He jerks his head over his shoulder and quickly ducks out of view of the window. Stiles gets the impression he’s running like a bomb's about to explode and he’s in the blast zone. And that is not a good sign. He keeps moving, without being invited further inside and barely spares them a glance as he bails out through the kitchen.

“Stop screwing your boyfriend and get ready,” he calls over his shoulder. “Hostiles about to make one hell of an entrance.”

“We're not screwing, you creepy fucker,” Stiles barks in reply and Derek is on his feet in the second it takes him to retrieve some weapons. 

He doesn’t realise that he’s moved into a protective stance in front of his father’s unconscious form until he’s standing there, watching the open window with a frown as Derek reaches his side.

“How many?” he demands, but Derek is too busy focusing on the hostiles outside like he can actually hear them which Stiles thinks he can and doesn't answer. And that’s just really fucking helpful, isn’t it?

Stiles has a moment to appreciate Peter’s help in luring whoever the fuck he’s running from directly toward them and then leaving this absolute clusterfuck like a bat outta hell before an object comes flying through the open space Peter’s entrance created and bounces across the carpet.

“Flash grenade!” he yells and dives over the couch, thankful for once that his father is actually unconscious. He lands heavily on the floor and Derek follows, already shielding his eyes as the grenade explodes.

Holy fuck, he definitely needs to get his dad out of the living room. Like pronto.

He waits several tense seconds to open his eyes and when Derek clamps down on his arm he takes that as an all clear and wrenches them open. Immediately, he notices that Derek has already seized his father from the couch and he’s ridiculously thankful for it, even as he struggles to drag him out of the living room while staying out of sight.

Derek, apparently, doesn’t have that problem. He growls in short bursts of air, warning, rumbling sounds as he flips over the couch and into the direct line of fire like the biggest freaking dumbfuck ever, and Stiles almost can’t watch.

He watches. Still trying to drag his father as the crack of a rifle explodes in the silence and Derek staggers like he’s been punched in the shoulder. Even though he can apparently heal broken wrists, Stiles still has a brief moment of panic when Derek stands there unmoving, making it so simple to line up the perfect head shot.

Oh, God. If it was Stiles holding that rifle he’d be dead already.

Although, it's already been deduced he has performance issues in that department when it comes to Derek. He doesn’t have to worry much longer. Derek suddenly goes rigid and collapses to the ground as another shot goes off, embedding itself in the back of the couch. 

He writhes across the floor like he’s seizing and Stiles is totally filled with abstract horror as he realises they're not firing bullets. He can see the small black object smaller than a fist, but definitely bigger than a bullet. The mechanical claws that have latched onto the couch to make it impossible to remove. It’s some kind of compact stun bullet, laced with volts of electricity after it automatically attaches to whatever it’s been fired to.

Apparently, there are easier methods for hand to hand combat with a stun gun these days. Stiles thinks quickly as he watches the electricity shock Derek’s system, trying to come up with a solution while he finally gets his father’s body into the kitchen.

Nobody fires at him and then he realises he’d automatically been standing out of view. It’s an instinctive response to being an expert marksmen. He knows all of the points in the house where he can be shot at from.

And that knowledge is paying off. He’s just begun crawling back to Derek when he spots him literally wrench the stun bullet from his shoulder. The claws tearing shirt and flesh, and the warm blood spilling freely from his chest while he tosses it to the side with a grunt of distaste.

Derek jerks around just in time for Stiles to witness the torn flesh abruptly knit itself together like it wasn’t injured in the first place. His heart gallops into frantic beats at the confirmation of it.

He was right, after all.

Derek is something else, alright. Something not human. And then he gets down onto all fours and Stiles’ eyes widen.

He moves on his hands and feet like an animal, swift and powerful, nearly crushing Stiles as he leaps towards him. Stiles twists at the last second and catches Derek with a grunt of surprise and they roll onto the tiling in the kitchen out of firing range, barely missing his dad's body.

Derek is still twitching, but Stiles’ hands are rock steady when he pushes him down and says. 

“Stay with my father. I’m going to fucking do something about this.”

Derek huffs, long and low and seizes Stiles shirt to pulls him in close. 

“I’m not a babysitter,” he mutters, eyes bleeding red and Stiles laughs because he can’t not.

But luckily he expected this. He seizes Derek’s shirt and forces their mouths together, tongue sliding eagerly into his suddenly very pliant mouth and groaning when Derek immediately snaps their hips together.

Oh God, Stiles wishes he could get naked right now. Instead, the soft click of handcuffs interrupts their steady make out session and Derek wrenches away with a snarl. He looks down at his hand, now chained to the Sheriff’s wrist and attempts to snap the metal.

Stiles has the feeling it would’ve worked. He enjoys Derek’s bewildered expression all of two seconds before he realises why he can’t break free.

Lydia. Particularly her purple powder.

Only, Lydia didn’t entirely use all of it when she knocked him out. And she may have given some to Stiles when Derek was unconscious to speed up resolving their situation. To probably ensure that she wins the pool, no doubt. And Stiles may have laced the pair of handcuffs he’d borrowed from his father and covered them in a handkerchief, drenched with bleach to kill the scent of it, in the event that he might need them for restraining Derek.

Or just for really kinky sex.

Stiles really isn’t averse to either.

“You’re still not tapping any ass until to tell me the truth,” he mutters, pleased at getting one over Derek as he tosses the keys he took from his dad's body toward him. Derek catches them automatically with his free hand. 

“Get him to the police cruiser. Attract as much fire as you can, but keep him safe. I’ll meet you there.”

“Stiles,” he croaks, voice edging on distressed so he sticks his tongue down his throat again. Because it’s only fair and he could die or something, so sue him.

“You’re such an asshole,” he tells him, pulling away before Derek can get his hands on him and bring him back.

Plus, he’s got his hands full at the moment.

Baby sitting duty.

Stiles ducks low and out the back door, sliding easily, feet first into the hole beneath the house. The cobwebs smack into his face, but his feet hit the case for his rifle and his steady hands wrap around it in the darkness.

He’s oddly calm as he assembles his weapon, determined to find out who the fuck is messing with him. He thinks they’re after ALPHA’s, but that doesn’t win the hostiles any brownie points.

They came to his house. Shot at them in a room where Stiles’ father was helpless and unconscious and there’s no fucking way in all of blistering hell that he is letting that go. If it’s Finstock after revenge, he’s going to fucking kill him this time.

But Peter implied there's more than one. Who the fuck are they?

He doesn't think Lydia's that crazy, or Scott's that stupid, or Jackson's that much of a douchebag. Danny's too smart for this. Peter's running _away _from them. Finstock's a goddamn pussy. And Allison's not that fucking heartless.__

 _ _Isn't she?__

 _ _

It’s soothing going by sense of touch in the blinding darkness and he feels more efficient for it when he finishes assembling his weapon in record timing. His hands know what they’re doing and he breathes deep, lets the rage settle in his gut like a promise before he crawls out from under the house.

He listens to the sound of the hostiles firing, head cocked to the side while Derek is on the move with his unconscious father. Stiles climbs the back off the house, scales it easily like he's done so many times and locates their position out of sight while Derek draws attention. And from the successive bursts of fire, it’s clear he’s the one they want.

Too bad Stiles got him first.

He makes it to the roof easily, rifle slung across his back as he crawls across the roof tiles on his belly. He pulls the rifle forward and looks through the scope. He grunts. Of course, they’d be shooting from the fucking forest. There so much tree cover it’s nearly impossible for them to get hit by return fire.

Only, they clearly haven’t gone up against Stiles before. And he likes a challenge.

He listens as they fire off more shots and then he’s got them in his sights. It’s not entirely accurate, he’s judging by angles from where the stun bullets are embedding themselves in the concrete as Derek moves swiftly across the front lawn, lugging his father over his shoulder, but it’s enough for a general area.

And that’s all Stiles needs. 

Peter was right.

There _is _two of them.__

There isn’t going to be for much longer.

He lines it up in his scope, adjust slightly after the next shot and then he pulls the trigger. He hears the release the crack as it hits and watches Derek snap his head up like he hears something. Direct hit. The second stops firing immediately. But that doesn’t mean anything to Stiles. He knows where they are now.

He fires again. Then he’s on his feet, sprinting across the front of the roof. He swings over the edge, half drops, half scales, down the rest and then he’s back onto the soft earth, diving into the police cruiser as Derek pulls the car up beside him, totally destroying most of his father’s garden.

Oh, well.

Derek takes off, tires crunching through the dirt as he speeds onto the main road. And then they’re getting the hell outta dodge.

“I got them both, didn’t I?” he demands when he’s gotten his breath back because he knows that somehow Derek will know the answer. Even if he’s not willing to admit how.

He jerks his head like he’s still pissed. 

“One badly wounded. The other superficial.”

“But I hit them,” he grins leaning back into the seat. “You really still wanna give killing me a go?”

His father finally stirs and fucking A, he’d practically forgotten about him until Derek shakes his wrist furiously as a reminder for him to get it the fuck off of him right now. He's only able to drive one handed. Stiles has the key, he'll get around to it eventually. He has to make sure his dad is fine first. 

“Dad!” he cries when the Sheriff sits up straighter.

The Sheriff doesn't speak, only glances down at where he and Derek are chained together and raises an eyebrow.

“This better not be the kinky stuff,” he says and Derek clears his throat uncomfortably, but Stiles can see his ears go red.

“No Dad, that was,” he scrambles to think of an explanation. “I mean, we-“

“Sheriff,” Derek growls, and Stiles has already kind of figured the jig is up here. He's already formulating his final will and testament. 

“Stiles has something to tell you.”

He lifts his chained wrist into the air and turns to look at Stiles while he shakes it around for good measure.

“Really?” he asks calmly like he's not about to blow up and oh fuck, he’s got his Sheriff face on. 

This is some big shit. Stiles sighs, and places his rifle into his lap watching as his father’s eyes go comically wide. Derek's watching the road but he's tensed and alert- ready for anything. And he is totally grateful for that. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, licking his dry lips. “I do.”

__

__

  
  
  
  
  



	9. Come Close (Lay Next To Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The werewolf is out of the bag. There is an empty minibar

# Come Close (Lay Next To Me)

# 

  


Derek doesn’t stop the car until they’re the next town over and by then, the tension between them all is crackling like a live wire.

His dad keeps rubbing his face like he’s trying to peel away his flesh, or maybe peel away the reality that’s in front of him and it's disappointing that it's not working.

Stiles is all for ripping away reality at the moment.

They book a room in the least skeezy looking motel and ignore the young girl’s judgy looks from behind the counter when she hands over the key to two young men and a middle aged man in a Sheriff uniform. They must look like they’re about to make some kind of weird attempt at amateur porn, because she’s looking at them like they’re some real kinky sonsofbitches and there is a strong sense of awkwardness. 

He doesn’t care, so long as she doesn’t notice the fact that he’s concealing a high powered weapon upon his person. And no, it’s not in his pants.

In fact, it’s only like half disassembled so he can fit it in the duffel bag he found in the trunk of the cruiser. Plus, Derek’s been weirdly close to him since Stiles magnanimously unchained him from his father. So close, that his hand actually comes across the back of his neck. A gentle weight settling on his skin as if to remind him that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Oh, sweet Jesus Stiles is so glad he’s not going anywhere. Because it’s true that Derek’s muscles actually create some kind of anti-truth-of-Stiles’-professional-career silence barrier and he needs that right now just so he can get his shit together.

They make it to the room without anybody attempting to kill them, so it gives him enough time to panic and overthink what he’s going to say to his father. It’s going to get ugly, he just knows it. His father barely gets a chance to make an awkward crack about the two very suggestible double beds in the room before the comforting warmth of Derek’s hand suddenly disappears from his neck and he gets a bad feeling.

Stiles actually turns, hand jerking forward to snatch at Derek’s wrist as he takes a step towards the door.

“Where are you going?” he demands, eyes narrowing. “Signalling the enemy?”

Derek actually rolls his eyes. “I left all the flint in my native American tinder box,” he retorts gruffly, pulling Stiles into the general vicinity of his mouth. 

It’s a real kiss. An edge of hunger to it that doesn’t escape his notice and by the time Derek pulls away, Stiles almost goes with him, chasing the soft but unyielding pressure of his mouth.

“Smoke signals will have to wait. You and your father need to talk.”

Stiles frowns and reluctantly releases him.

“I second that,” his father agrees from the furthest available bed. “I also would like to suggest we crack open that minibar and down the contents.”

Derek gives him a wolfish grin like the idea of getting drunk is somehow freaking amusing and then blitzes out of the door, leaving them alone with the giant elephant that is the lie Stiles has been living for way too many years. And apparently, this elephant is rampaging.

“Okay, well, I’m just going to jump right into this," he begins eventually, suddenly interested in his hands. 

"Alright, so college,” he says and his father’s eyebrows go up suspiciously.

“What about college?” he asks cautiously like he knows the question is going to blow the lid off on everything.

“Let’s just say we have an open relationship.”

The Sheriff scowls, eyes narrowing so much he's almost squinting. “How open?”

“The kind of open where our interaction is solely me thinking about it every time I visit you.”

His father blinks owlishly up at him. “Stiles…”

“Maybe it’s about that time where I tell you why I happen to possess a rifle that I am very capable of using?”

His dad climbs wearily to his feet, slapping the palm of his hands against his thighs before sighing heavily. 

“Where’s that minibar?”

“Probably in the same place where you’re hiding from this conversation,” he remarks dryly, collapsing heavily on the spot his father just vacated and bouncing across the mattress. 

“C’mon, Dad this has been a long time coming. Let me do it right. We can get drunk afterwards.”

The Sheriff pivots awkwardly on his feet for a moment, looking unsure but Stiles pats the mattress encouragingly and the expression on his face must be enough to convince him because he joins Stiles on the bed, sprawling out stiffly and rubbing at his face again.

He suddenly looks very young. Vulnerable. And Stiles isn’t quite sure what to do with that image of his father so he takes a deep breath and starts telling him. 

It’s harder than he thought to watch the changing expressions on his dad’s face, but he gets through most of it and stumbles blindly through the rest. He prays that his father can look him in the eye without saying what a disappointment he is or that he has to put him away for life imprisonment.

“I’ve never killed someone who the police wouldn’t have arrested if they’d been able to find evidence to convict, I swear,” he fumbles out, locking eyes with his father and simply willing him to believe like sprinkling some fucking fairy dust will make it so.

His father regards him with utmost seriousness, looking directly into his eyes as if trying to find something believable in them. Something he can trust. He blinks just before Stiles’ eyes begin to water.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re Dexter?” he demands, and dear God, Stiles has got to stop letting his father watch programs that have anything to do with serial killers, seriously.

“Uh, really?” he puffs, fingers sliding desperately across his face wondering how his life got this way. “That’s what you’re getting out of this?”

His father shrugs. “You’re the one who kills people for money…”

“Bad people,” he interjects helpfully resisting the urge to wiggle his eyebrows.

“Not the issue here,” his father mutters, frowning like he knows about the eyebrows anyway. “I’m still on the, you-kill-people stage, Stiles. Let me catch up a minute.”

Stiles is suddenly very interested in reassembling his gun for safety reasons and as an excuse to busy his shaky hands. So he does. He barely drags the pieces out before his fingers are calmly sliding over the rifles mechanics with ease and familiarity. His head clears for a moment.

“You’re very good at that,” his father notices, and Stiles’ heads snaps up, having forgotten his father is even in the room. It’s so bizarre to be touching a weapon so reverently in his father’s presence. He’s almost expecting him to snatch it from his grip and give him a gun safety lecture.

“It calms me for some obscure reason,” he admits. “After I-“ 

He swallows heavily and can’t quite look his father in the eye for a moment because he’s a fucking coward. “I always feel less jittery.”

His father nods, but there’s not forgiveness in his gaze or encouragement. Just begrudging acceptance.

“How does Derek fit into all this?” he asks after a moment and Stiles nearly drops his weapon. Not sure if that means his father has accepted this. There wasn't even any raised voices. 

“He works for a rival company,” Stiles explains hesitantly, not sure how far he wants to take his father down the I’m-a-big-fucking-liar-who-lies-about-everything path which would inevitably lead to the he's-my-fake-boyfriend destination. Instead, He clears his throat. 

“And um, we’re sort of meant to kill each other.”

His father actually chuckles at that, before folding his arms behind his head and using them as a pillow as if this is amusing and not horrifying.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Stiles knows he’s flushing, but he still jabs his father in the knee. Sharp enough to make him wince.

“That’s not the point Dad, big picture here. People are trying to kill us and I need you to be okay with all of this before I blow shit up,” he tells him, raising his eyebrows expectantly. 

Imploringly.

His father sighs, and sits up again. “Crack open that minibar and we’ll work on it.”

  
  


  
  
  
  
  


They don’t work on it. They get drunk instead.

Stiles is perfectly okay with this. He’s pretty impressed that they managed to down the entire contents in the fridge and there’s a pleasant buzz settling in the back of his skull when he rests his weapon in his lap and listens to his dad talk. It’s not the way people fix anything, but it works for them and Stiles knows they’re okay, even if his dad is looking at him like he doesn’t quite know who he's looking at anymore when he thinks Stiles doesn’t notice.

He needs to process everything and Stiles would be happy to leave him to it to do that, only he has to stick around to keep him safe. So they’re stuck together and they both know it. Hence spirits.

Lots of spirits. 

Stiles admits freely that the alcohol gets him frustratingly horny and even his father’s presence isn’t enough of a deterrent from the sudden urge to grab Derek and rub himself all over him as soon as he returns from wherever the hell he went.

He doesn’t realise that he’s actually spoken this aloud until his father shoves him clumsily off of the bed and slurs. 

“Then whatcha waiting for? Jesus, it's like you two… you’re like animals.”

Stiles blinks at his father from his sudden position on the carpet, mouth going slack. Numbed by the taste of alcohol and subtly adjusts his pants. He almost wants to complain about the lack of animal sex, but he’s not drunk enough to give up that final lie just yet. As far as his father knows they’re like the Romeo and Juliet of violent, precision killing. 

“He’s not human dad, I swear. He’s…”

He accidentally flings the rifle across the floor, then scrambles drunkenly towards it until his fingers close over it again. Thankfully, his dad is too drunk to notice or lecture about it. 

“He can’t be human. Too strong, ‘s too fast.”

The sheriff laughs again, loud and unbidden in the empty room and nearly hits himself in the face when he rolls over onto his side. Stiles slides over to slap his father’s calf comfortingly, whilst trying to keep his attention.

“M’ serious. This is all I got… ‘s just fucking numbers,” he whines pulling out the list of dates he’d copied from Derek’s file and waving it in his father’s face.

The Sheriff licks his lips and blinks a few times as he squints up at the dates. When he reaches to take it from Stiles’ hands, he lets him take it and goes back to stroking the weapon in his lap idly, feeling drunkenly pensive.

“Full moon,” his father grunts out after several minutes of comfortable silence. 

Stiles frowns and tips his head back to look at him and the entire room spins. "Eh?" 

His father rolls his eyes, and points at the paper in his grip. “I remember… there was so many incident reports to fill out on those nights at the station. Lots of calls… People get a bit crazy on full moons, weird.”

Stiles tries to think about that for a minute, but he’s way too drunk to put the pieces together right now. “So,” he says, licking his lips and liking the way the word rolls off his tongue so he says it again. “So, that means..?”

There’s barely a pause and his forehead wrinkles in concentration before his father’s eyes are brightening with the solution.

“Full moon!” he cries with more gusto than necessary as he sits up fast on the bed, nearly knocking over the lamp. “Not human!”

Stiles stumbles to his feet so that he can stop his father from accidentally breaking something with his enthusiasm. He doesn’t reach his side before his father pokes an accusing finger into his chest and stares at him, expression serious.

“Your boyfriend's a werewolf,” the Sheriff informs him gravely, before cracking up into wild bouts of laughter that shake the entire bed.

Stiles pauses, but his father doesn’t notice his reaction and laughs for several more minutes until he rolls over again and starts snoring. And then he's out like a light. So there's that. Stiles nudges a pillow under his head and puts him into the recovery position, just in case he accidentally smothers himself in his sleep, or throws up and then positions himself on the floor in perfect view of the door. 

His movements are jilted and uncoordinated, but he gets the job done without incident. He doesn’t know how long he sits there thinking about nothing and everything. But eventually he starts to sober up enough to realise that what he’s thinking isn’t as unreasonable as his father thought.

Full moon.

Wolfsbane powder that knocks Derek out. For _hours. _When nothing Stiles ever tries seems to hurt or affect him.__

Bones that don’t break. No, Goddamn, he knows he broke Derek’s wrist. Bones that _do _break but heal almost instantly.__

Red eyes. _Inhuman _eyes.__

And the throat thing. Smelling. Oh, God, _scenting _him. That’s what Derek had been doing right? Scenting him? Like he was marking territory or something.__

Holy fuck, he was _marking his territory. _And Stiles totally got off on that.__

Dammit, he’s still horny.

Still wants Derek.

_Werewolf _Derek.__

ALPHA Derek. Holy fuck. His uncle and sister are in on it. The werewolfness. Stiles just knows it. Hell, maybe Isaac too.

The unmistakeable click of the lock, snaps into his drunken musings and he flicks his weapon up into position and waits. His father is snoring quietly on the furthest bed and Stiles glances at him automatically before watching the door swing open.

Derek walks in, doesn’t try to sneak. His footsteps are utterly silent anyway, but he stops when he spots Stiles on the floor, back pressed against the wall as he has the gun trained on his heart. He frowns for a second like he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on and then his nostrils flair and he takes in the sight of all of the empty mini bottles that used to be filled with alcohol scattered across the two beds and on the stained carpet before he and his father got their hands on them.

“You’re drunk,” he says like it’s a statement that he wants to tear into little, itty bitty pieces. 

His eyes narrow dangerously and Stiles’ heart thumps dumbly in his chest. “Think you can still shoot straight?”

Stiles doesn’t smile like Derek is expecting him to, or fluster to explain himself like he usually does and he seems to sense the sudden tension in the room because he frowns and Stiles is more annoyed that it makes him want to jump his bones. 

Him being all frowny face like that shouldn't be so hot.

“Let’s find out,” Stiles says, and his throat closes up and wavers when he flicks off the safety. 

Derek doesn’t look too shocked. Only strangely determined and then Scott and Isaac come into the room behind him not seeing Stiles with the weapon.

“Stiles,” Scott calls, looking about the room in confusion. “I heard about what happened…”

Stiles cocks the rifle and glances at Scott’s horrified expression for all of two seconds, stunned to see him here and Derek takes the opportunity to rush him while he’s distracted.

He’s still drunk and horny and slow, so Derek slams into him hard, wrenching his baby out of his grip and tosses it to Scott who catches it one handed looking completely dumbfounded. It's his automatic reflex kicking in that's the only reason he ends up holding Stiles' weapon.

Stiles doesn’t see Isaac’s expression, because he’s suddenly looking at the ceiling and Derek is pinning him down to the carpet, all warmth and muscle and fury, and it sets him alight like he’s been waiting for Derek since they got here.

But he’s enraged at the same time. So, he fights back. Struggles as best he can under Derek’s grip and swears colourfully, highly regretting the day he decided to take a chance on a last minute assignment, because he hadn’t been to the big apple in a while and felt like travelling for a bit of fun.

“Take his father,” Derek growls. “We’ll meet you at the place we agreed tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Isaac makes a soft sound of protest, but Stiles can barely hear it over the angry huffs of Derek’s breath as it ghosts across his exposed skin.

“Just go,” he practically snarls and Stiles clips him in the jaw after they gently pick up his dead-to-the-world father and exit. The door shuts loudly behind them as the quiet snores of his father becomes a distant sound and his weapon disappears along with him. 

Derek manages to pin his wrists and looks him directly in the eye as Stiles tries to catch his breath.

“Settle,” he commands, and then brushes his fingers deliberately over the bite marks on Stiles’ throat. His heart beat spikes, but he manages to push Derek off of him.

“You’re a fucking werewolf,” he snaps and shoves at Derek again for good measure. 

He knows he can’t go anywhere, because he’s too drunk to drive and he doesn’t have the key to the cruiser. Plus, he has no money and his cell phone is pretty much dead.

Derek probably wouldn’t let him leave, anyway. So, he stomps over to the closest bed and tears off his shirt and jeans before he climbs in without another word and shuts off the lights. The silence is almost accusing when he tries to settle down enough to go to sleep where he can stop thinking about this shit until he wakes up again.

Anger is oozing out of him, but his heart beat still stutters when the bed dips and Derek climbs in beside him. It’s both frustrating and comforting that Derek didn’t leave, but Stiles is too drunk to deal with the situation right now. Or what to do with his hands, so he just lies there in the dark and listens to Derek breathe.

“I was born like this,” Derek says eventually from much closer than Stiles had thought he was. “It’s who I am, and I won’t apologise for that.”

And when he pushes up against Stiles’ back, slips an arm around his waist and settles his mouth against the warmth of his exposed neck, Stiles only exhales and pushes back to get in closer.

Because he’s too drunk to pretend otherwise.

 

 

  
  
  
  


He wakes up hard and aching, alert and blinking quickly into the darkness and realises what his problem is straight away. Derek hand is pressed against his abdomen, burning and tantalisingly close to where he’d really like it which is probably why his dream involved a lot of nakedness and friction and he groans, pressing his fingers against the heat of Derek's skin.

He peels the hand away from his stomach, feels Derek stir almost immediately and releases a breathy sigh when he moves it beneath the waistband of his boxers and a flush of heat when he doesn’t actually have to move it on his own.

“A deals a deal,” he promises huskily when Derek finally curls a hand around him and groans heartily when he slides his fingers experimentally over flesh, learning Stiles' body as he arches into it and pushes his ass into the hardness of Derek’s steadily awakening cock.

“God,” Derek groans, and Stiles actually feels his cock become fuller at the sound of his sleepy voice as Derek slips into awareness. Jesus, it's like sex. 

“We can’t…” he murmurs, pumping Stiles’ cock anyway in a perfect combination of rawness and heat with Stiles' precum slicking up his hand as he thumbs over the tip. Stiles tilts his throat so Derek can skim his mouth across it and muffles his groan into the pillow.

“I didn’t call Scott so we could…” 

Derek moans again when Stiles ignores him and grinds his ass down on his cock with vigour. Seriously, Derek needs to stop talking right now. 

“We have to meet them so we can come up with a…”

He gasps when Stiles abandons all pretences that he isn’t trying to get into Derek’s pants and pushes Derek onto his back, climbing on top of him so he can shove their cocks together and roll his hips with a sigh of satisfaction.

“-plan,” he finishes. “Fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes in time with his hips, grinding against him with a laugh. “I thought that’s what we were already doing? Besides it’s dark we’ve got plenty of…”

He licks his lips and gasps when Derek pulls off his boxers and frees his erection so that he can grind against less fabric. It’s pure fucking bliss and Stiles rambles breathlessly about how much he’s wanted to do this as Derek arches his hips up to meet his thrusts.

Derek is shirtless and Stiles idly brushes against his nipple as he works Derek’s pants off, getting him fully naked. Derek’s hands are on his hips, but he crushes Stiles down to slam their mouths together and it’s dirty because his mouth tastes like ass and he really shouldn’t ever drink again, but Derek’s licking into his mouth anyway and it’s fantastic and hot.

Stiles pulls away to get a hand around both of their cocks and starts stroking, kissing down Derek’s chest and eagerly taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking while he works them both. Derek’s fingers are scratching desperately at his scalp and Stiles is kind of loving all of this right now, especially the frantic sounds Derek is making.

There are hands everywhere, lips and teeth, and glorious fucking friction, and it’s perfect and damn, he’s so in love right now.

Derek’s fingers brush questioningly across the flesh of his ass, fingers sliding between his cheeks to press at his entrance. He doesn’t push in, but Stiles is so far gone that he wants him to raw even though he’s been carrying lube around in his pocket since Derek kissed him. He pulls away with a reluctant groan and Derek rolls with him, still keeping their bodies tangled together as he reaches the edge of the bed and locates his jeans. 

Derek mouths at his shoulder and bites, hitching Stiles’ thigh up across his hip to change the angle and he groans, fingers scrabbling desperately over the small bottle of lube before Derek fully hauls him up back onto the bed.

“I’d blow you,” Stiles says idly watching Derek’s expression darken. "But I don’t think I can last that long and I’m not sure what kind of freaky shit a werewolf cock has going on. So raincheck?”

Derek grinds hard, drawing a whimper from his mouth as he coats his fingers liberally and slides down to press against his entrance. 

“It’s just normal,” he growls, slipping a finger inside Stiles without any warning and he sighs in relief, rotating his hips as his body welcomes the sensation, throwing his head back as Derek thrusts in and out slowly.

“Stiles,” he rumbles, but says nothing else as he adds another finger. 

Stiles groans, and lets himself be stretched. The warmth in his belly fizzling through his skin and climbing higher. He lets the pleasure build until it’s too much and Derek’s eyes flash and he seizes Stiles cock, circling the head and squeezing tightly as his fingers stop moving in his ass.

Stiles swears and tries to fuck himself on Derek’s fingers, but he won’t let him move an inch.

“Just let me,” Derek asks, and there’s a tightness to his voice that grabs Stiles’ attention. “Not until I’m inside you, please.”

Stiles groans, because that is way too hot and he's seriously about to blow his load here. “Then hurry the fuck up.”

So he does. But not before adding a third finger and stretching him for several more minutes, during which his other hand holds tight to Stiles’ cock and prevents him from exploding all over Derek’s chest.

“Goddamn it, Derek,” he snaps eventually nearly out of his mind. “Now!”

He doesn’t need further instruction, thank fuck, and withdraws his fingers, rolling on a condom and then suddenly that’s an awesome cock pressing against his ass and Derek- finally- is sliding into him.

The heat is unbearable, and Derek licks the sweat from his skin as he pushes slowly, agonisingly slowly, inside him, letting him adjust around the fullness. Stiles is nearly clawing his eyes out by the end of it, because Derek is taking his sweet fucking time and he really needs to start fucking him already.

It’s like he flips a switch, because Derek bottoms out and then withdraws before slamming back in and fucking up into him in earnest. Stiles’ pants through it, his palms flat against Derek’s chest as he rides him eagerly, hips undulating and savouring the feeling of Derek inside him. It’s great. It’s really fucking great, but abruptly Derek is sitting up, seizing his ass until he’s fully in his lap and finally leaving Stiles’ cock alone. And then it’s just back to all consuming fucking pleasure.

His mouth is at Stiles ear and he doesn’t need to hear him whisper, “Let go,” to send him over, but it wrenches his orgasm out of him anyway. The deep rumble of Derek’s voice in his ear making him lose it.

He groans, long and heady, arms collapsing loosely around Derek’s neck as he keeps thrusting into him and Stiles mouths tiredly at the junction of Derek’s throat, bone deep exhausted and so fucking satisfied with everything. Derek’s hands press against his back as he lowers him onto the mattress so that he’s hovering over him, still jerking his hips leisurely as he fucks into him like he has all the time in the world and Stiles groans when he realises he actually did coat Derek's chest in his spunk.

He barely presses an open palm to Derek’s cum streaked abs before Derek is shuddering over him, body tightening as he spills into the condom and Stiles ignores the disappointment of not feeling it inside him.

They lie there for a moment Derek holding off so his full weight doesn’t crush him and Stiles knows its only so he can keep his slowly softening cock inside a little longer. It shouldn’t be hot. It should be uncomfortable and maybe a little dirty, which it will probably in a minute, but Stiles is too busy basking in the afterglow to give a shit.

He just got fucked by a werewolf.

And it was awesome. Derek pulls out, ties the condom and tosses it into the trashcan near the nightstand before pulling Stiles against his chest.

“We are so doing that again,” Stiles pants, breathing uneven as Derek’s fingers stroke idly through the spunk covering his chest. Stiles watches with interest as Derek brings a finger to his mouth.

“No,” Stiles breathes, awestruck, as Derek literally _tastes _him on his fingers.__

 _ _Oh God, he’s going to break his dick from all of the sexually depraved images that just created. He watches him lick for a moment before his cock twitches and he’s shoving Derek’s hand away from his mouth only so he can stick his own tongue in it.__

And then they’re making out idly on the bed, naked and covered in spunk, and Stiles doesn’t give a shit about it.

Because hello, shower sex anyone?

 

 

  
  
  
  


They probably should have slept for a little longer but instead they just end up fucking like rabbits and making up for lost time.

Stiles literally thinks he’s under some kind of werewolf mojo, because he can’t seem to keep his hands off Derek, even for the drive to meet his dad, Scott and Isaac. He totally blows him in the police cruiser.

So by the time they get there- where 'there' happens to be some property in the woods about an hours drive from their hotel- they’re both pretty flushed and smelling of sex and looking thoroughly satisfied with themselves. Stiles is too fucking pleased to give a shit, because he’s been stroking something else besides his gun for once and it’s fucking amazing.

Plus, Derek is seriously almost as horny as he is- they had to pull over twice before they got there- and it’s just making the I’m-a-werewolf-aaargh thing a lot easier to forgive, because Stiles is fucking magnanimous. 

Derek navigates easily up the twisting road as it disappears into the woods and Stiles resists the urge to reach for his hunting knife because they’ve been fucking for hours now and he’s pretty sure Derek isn’t driving him out into the woods to kill him.

They pull up in the driveway and Stiles climbs out first, automatically moving to sling his rifle over his shoulder before he remembers it's no longer there. He ignores the sense of loss and wonders how hungover his father is and if he’s okay. He regrets letting him go so easily last night, but he’s with Scott at least and Stiles trusts Scott.

Plus, if he hadn’t gone then Stiles wouldn’t have gotten laid, so it’s win-win.

His father actually opens the door before they reach it like he’s been waiting for them and his eyes have the deep shadows of sleep deprivation and he still looks a little drunk. He pulls Stiles into a one armed hug of manly gruffness and surprisingly, Derek as well before he tugging them into the house.

It’s a nice house, actually. Stiles wonders who it belongs to when Derek slides and arm around his waist and nudges him forward like he knows where he’s going. Laura, Isaac and Scott meet them in the kitchen and Laura grins at them, smug and all knowing and Stiles flushes.

Isaac looks kind of pleased and Stiles scowls at them all. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re all werewolves and you all know exactly what happened several…” he clears his throat. “Minutes ago… so get the hell over it.”

Scott kind of whines a little, nose wrinkling, and Stiles’ jaw drops as it clicks into place.

“Hold the fuck up,” he growls, advancing on Scott who’s eyes widen, because Stiles did not fucking know this and now he's screwed. Scott? Fucking Scott?

“You’re _all _werewolves?”__

Scott looks distressed like he’s not sure what to say, but Stiles is. Oh yeah, he definitely knows what to do in this situation. Friendship over.

“You’re dead, Scotty,” he growls, stalking forward before Derek or his father can stop him. 

Laura looks amused, Isaac concerned and Scott looks almost as scared as he is whenever Lydia is in the same room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe defend leaving something so monumental like hey-I’m-a-werewolf-and-I-get-hairy-during-full-moons from his best friend, but he doesn’t get around to it.

Mainly because Stiles punches him in the face.

Apparently, lots of werewolf sex does not make Stiles a forgiving person. 

Can't blame Derek for trying.

  
  
  
  
  



	10. This Is War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLACES I HAVE BEEN....  
> sorry for the late update guys. I just got back from New York which was totally awesome. But anyway, definitely updating more frequently from here on in XD so you can put away your pitchforks and burning torches :P

# This Is War

# 

Stiles resists the urge to smooth his thumb soothingly over the top of his quickly bruising knuckles while Scott takes several precautionary steps back, rubbing at his face before giving him the puppy eyes. 

Uh-uh, no way Stiles is letting him off _that _easy. ____

Scott opens his mouth to explain the liar lyingson lie that he's been living for the duration of their friendship, but Stiles lets loose an angry snarl which is polite code for shut-the-fuck-up-before-I-wolfsbane-your-ass.

Derek smirks. But Stiles isn’t totally done yet and he cracks his knuckles threateningly just to establish how very not fucking okay he is with the situation. 

“This ones a firecracker, isn’t he?” Laura mutters, but her eyes are bright, ablaze with an emotion Stiles can't quite recognise. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “This one is contemplating murder, actually. Isaac, now would be a great time to give me back my weapon,” he says, holding out his hand expectantly.

Laura laughs at his dangerous expression, but Derek frowns because he knows that he's completely serious. Stiles' gaze doesn’t waver from Isaac’s and Scott’s eyes widen like he just signed him up to be neutered.

“Stiles,” his father begins uncertainly, the small drunken truce they seemed to have developed several hours ago unravelling at the evidence of his murderous fury.

Everyone’s looking at him like he’s some crazy trigger happy assassin and he sighs, letting his hand drop appeasingly. 

“For target practice, Jesus. I’m not going to shoot anybody.”

Derek takes a step closer, hand skimming Stile’s side before resting on his hip as he leans in to press his mouth against the shell of his ear and the sudden urge to unload his feelings with bullets melts away at the burn of his touch. The sneaky fucker.

“How about I show you my bedroom?” Derek suggests lowly and Stiles immediately flushes as every werewolf expression transforms into a sly grin while his father only looks suspicious and slightly bemused at Derek’s hands all over his son.

Stiles gently elbows him in the ribs and steps out of his reach, though his wildly thrumming heart gives him away. 

“This is your house?” he asks, not bothering to lower his voice when everyone in the room can practically hear him anyway.

“It’s an ALPHA safe house,” Laura interjects. “But it’s exclusive. We practically grew up here. Family only.”

Her mouth quirks into a dangerous smile. “And fuckemies.”

The Sheriff guffaws as Stiles blinks through momentary confusion. “And what?”

Her grin widens like he just threw her a particularly meaty morsel. “Enemies that fuck,” she explains with a pointed look at the both of them. “Considering how much my baby brother has rubbed himself all over you.”

Derek lets out a pained sound at that and she raises an eyebrow at the Sheriff’s pinched expression. “Or is that not what you’re doing?”

Stiles doesn’t back down when she suddenly moves into his personal space, eyes sharp and claws slowly extending. He stares unblinkingly into her rapidly changing irises and calmly pushes Derek back when he tries to intervene.

“What are you doing?” she demands, all teasing pretence gone. “Why were you in the woods with the Argent girl?”

He can hear Derek’s sharp intake of breath and feel the stir of air behind him as he abruptly backs away like he just realised that Stiles is covered in wolfsbane or something. Stiles ignores the twinge of hurt in his gut as he does.

Laura’s attention wavers for a second and flickers to Derek before her expression softens. 

“Was it…?” Derek begins, agonised, but Laura’s gaze is back on Stiles, predatory and defensive as she jerks her head no. 

Only Stiles seems to pick up on the hesitancy in his voice, the way it wavers as Derek asks her like someone just stabbed a rod into his chest. It takes all of Stiles’ self control not to turn his back on Laura and look at him, actually see the expression there which might tell him what the hell is going on right now.

What's going on is they're in hostile territory. And it will get his father killed if he forgets it for a second.

“I don’t know what this is about,” Stiles begins slowly, tone measured. “But she’s just a colleague who's in Beacon Hills for the same reason all of you are. To fucking ruin my life, okay? Besides why the hell are you asking me about it?”

He finally glances at Scott and his expression is one of true horror as he hastily brings up his hands to signal silence, waving frantically behind Laura’s back. But the time when Stiles might have lied through his teeth for Scott has passed. Fuck him. For being such a lying little shit.

He feels it’s only fair to throw him to the pissed off werewolf. Scott’s expression seems to show he realises what Stiles is about to do and he lets out a low whimper. And he totally does not have to fight the evil smile that curves at his mouth at the sound, nope.

“Scott’s the one who dated her.”

He almost points for effect, but he figures that’s probably overkill. Laura whirls on Scott like she smells blood and Isaac is already there between them, attempting to placate her. Stiles doesn’t waste time to figure out what the big issue with the Argent's is. He seizes his father’s wrist and tugs him from the room.

“You don’t really plan to leave, son?” his father asks when they walk through the long hallway. 

He’s burning with some kind of emotion. Fury at Derek’s reaction at Scott’s lies and he just wants his weapon, dammit. He needs to focus.

“No,” he says, crisply although he’s never been short with his dad ever. “But you should stay out of that while I get my weapon. I’m not going to stay here like a sitting duck. Unarmed.”

“I think I need to lie down again,” the Sheriff admits and Stiles releases his hold on his wrist and tries to smile encouragingly. 

He winces when his father rubs at the spot where he gripped him a littler harder than he should have and feels the urge to kick himself.

“Sure, Dad,” he says, feeling his expression soften. “Get some rest.”

His father manages a smile, but as he walks off, Stiles hears him mutter, “Assassins _and _werewolves, Jesus.” ____

He doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if Derek has followed him. He knows that he hasn’t. God, the way he’d sounded…

Like Stiles had ripped into a tender wound and torn the flesh open. He stalks silently from room to room, trying to observe without bias as he searches for his weapon, but he must be emotionally compromised because he looks at the family photos too long. Lets his hands linger on the odd assembly of broken things placed like a shrine in the living room.

His fingers come away blackened and he realises what he’s touched is lightly covered in a layer of ash which careful effort couldn’t fully scrub away. The unusual assortment of things becomes suddenly a collection of belongings that have endured.

_A fire. _He guesses, while rubbing his soot covered fingers together absentmindedly. There's no way to be sure, though. He continues the search, becoming more analytical, pushing the shrine of belongings and the question of what happened to make them that way, to the back of his mind.__

It gives him a headache to think too much into it. He doesn’t want to feel anything for Derek at the moment.

He just wants his fucking weapon. Stiles moves swiftly, because his brain seems to be clicking into overdrive from weapon withdrawal and it takes him less than five minutes to locate it.

In Derek’s room.

Of fucking _course _.__

It has to be Derek’s room. There’s a definite Derek vibe to the lack of possessions, save a few small items placed on the drawers like he’s ready to tear out of there at any moment. Stiles lets out an angry sigh at the unfairness of it all and hopes Derek doesn’t decide to come through the door as he bends down to retrieve his weapon from the wall hook where either Isaac or Scott safely stored it.

To have it back within his hands is almost medicinal and a peculiar calm settles over him immediately. He slinks out of the room without meeting anybody and instantly quickens his pace so he can keep it that way. He can still hear the raised voices from inside the kitchen and he makes his way outside into the darkness.

He waits for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. It's much later than he realised when he and Derek finally stopped screwing around and arrived at the safe house. His skin flushes with memory as the darkness settles over him like a blanket.

The woods are fairly silent. Only natural sounds assault his ears as he begins a half hearted patrol of the perimeter. It seems almost pointless with a house full of highly sensory werewolves, hell, they probably know he’s outside right now.

He doesn’t care. He needs sometime to himself to think. So he trudges through most of the brambles, ignores the way it scratches against his jeans as he stomps with relish. God, he’s really not being silent now, but any kind of subtlety is impossible when the house is ensnared in thick trees and bushes.

He knows it’s to keep them hidden and protected, but he’d rather his shoes weren’t making such an explosion of sound even if there isn't anyone for miles to hear him. 

Stiles notices a thick branch that spans out past the roof of the house, lit up by the light of the moon and idly notes that he could easily jump that. He’s already slinging his rifle strap over his shoulder, taking a foothold into the tree and pulling himself up before he can think it might be a bad idea.

It feels good to be using his muscles, even if this time there’s no potential orgasm involved. The muscles in his stomach twitch as a flash of memory punches into him; Derek’s hands tight on his hips and Stiles’ fingers buried into the softness of Derek’s hair. A rapid heat works its way through him. 

He grunts out a sound of frustration, and grabs at another branch to distract him. He moves quickly and efficiently, reaching the thick branch in minutes and scaling easily across it before he steps onto the roof. It’s colder up here. Quieter. And for the time being, it’s perfect. He unlatches the rifle from his shoulder and places it into his lap, fingers running over the smooth edges, tracing by familiarity.

It’s methodical and distracting and he needs that to focus him at the moment. Because he needs time to think.

And plan.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


His feet barely touch the soil half an hour later before something yanks at his collar, lifting him into the air. He lets out a gasp of surprise, twisting the weapon slung over his shoulder so that he has a clear shot at his attacker.

He hears a familiar sigh of disapproval before Laura cuffs him across the back of his head. Head ALPHA, Laura. Jesus.

“Idiot,” she barks, and is it his mind screwing around or does it sound almost fond? “You really think that’s going to hurt me?”

He tries to shrug out of her hold, but she’s literally holding him in the air so that he hangs loosely like a cub in the jaws of its mother. 

“It might make me feel better,” he insists stubbornly, flushing at the indignity of her restraint. He definitely should not be this easy to lift.

She sighs like the world will fail without her and drags him back towards the house, not letting his feet touch the ground as if he weighs nothing to her.

Fucking werewolves.

“I can hear you both moping from either side of the house,” she growls. 

“Look, I don’t know you. And I don’t trust people I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to deal with the two of you tiptoeing around this house like strangers when you clearly smell like you’ve been fucking for hours on end.”

Stiles groans, and tries to free his weapon again only so he can bludgeon her with it, but she laughs like attempted murder is funny- to her, it probably is- and carries him easily up the stairs, making him suddenly very aware of his destination.

“You can thank me later,” she snaps before barging straight into Derek’s room and literally tossing him onto the bed. 

What the fuck. Thank God, the safety on his weapon is on. 

Derek comes out of the bathroom like he’s preparing for a fight, but stops short when he spots Stiles' ungainly sprawl of limbs across his bedspread. 

Laura growls in frustration when they do nothing, but look at each other and storms from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to keep up the eye contact so he looks away, if only to gently place his weapon on one of the hooks on the wall. He also sets about retrieving the other smaller weapons from his person. 

A small hunting knife, more purple powder which Derek growls at which Stiles ignores and another set of handcuffs.

The bed dips as if Derek takes his weapon stripping to be some sort of truce and has decided to sit beside him, but Stiles ignores the sensation of his presence when he's close enough that Stiles can smell him.

“I overreacted,” Derek admits abruptly to his surprise. “And I’m sorry you didn’t know about Scott.”

Stiles’ chest tightens for a moment, before he exhales a deep breath and relaxes. It’s offsetting how easily Derek can do that. Even worse when he reaches out and brushes his thumb against the back of his bare neck.

He breathes sharply, but doesn’t flinch away when Derek’s mouth burns a trail across his throat. He kisses across his jaw and Stiles doesn’t even realise he’s turned his head obligingly until Derek is kissing him on the mouth.

Oh, boy.

He doesn’t protest when Derek gently pushes him back onto the bed, keeping their mouths sealed together, only threads his blackened fingers into Derek’s hair and tugs him closer, deepening the kiss while his heart pounds wildly beneath the hands reaching to draw off his shirt.

Jesus, he is so fucking gone.

 

  
  
  
  
  


Stiles feels infinitely better the next morning. Probably because he wakes up blanketed by a freaking hunk of a werewolf, muscles aching from a good tumble in the sack. A tumble they repeated several times last night.

He extracts himself, though not before making a distracted grab at Derek’s ass, which is acknowledged with a soft groan before he climbs out of bed and into the connecting bathroom to take a leak. He gets into the shower after that. Then wanders naked into Derek’s room to borrow some clothes, because his are getting a bit on the completely-destroyed-behind-recognition-of-clothing type of side.

His cock seems to find some interest in wearing Derek’s clothes so to distract himself while he sleeps, Stiles uses some of Derek’s tools to clean his weapon. 

He’s halfway through cleaning it for a second time- just to be thorough and keep the party in his pants quiet. Before he notices a rectangular box on Derek's bedside table. Instantly curious as to what Derek would keep so close to him whilst sleeping, he moves silently towards it, only intending a quick peek. 

But then Derek fully wakes up and sees what he’s wearing through sleep heavy eyes and quickly tugs him back into bed to divest him of the clothes again.

Stiles doesn’t mind that much.

When they finally make it downstairs, everybody has convened in the kitchen again only this time it’s around a towering pile of pancakes, bacon, eggs and toast. Stiles and his father barely grab a plate each before the werewolves set upon the mountain of food. He’s a bit horrified by the end of it. Especially by the fact that out of every werewolf _Laura _is the one who eats the most.__

Scott’s bottomless stomach finally makes sense.

Jesus, and Stiles had thought _he_ ate too much. Scott tries to speak to him as he makes his way to the coffee machine afterwards, but he mock punches him in the shoulder because after all his thinking last night and all the sex, he really doesn’t have the capacity to be angry with his best friend at the moment.

Scott seems to understand because he hugs Stiles, even if his nose wrinkles like he can smell everything he and Derek have been doing lately and Stiles appreciates that he hugs him, anyway, he really does.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” Scott offers. “I’ve never told anyone before. And Isaac…”

Isaac appears like Scott called him, which duh, and Scott smiles at him in that sappy, lovesick way he’d done with Allison, but somehow much worse. 

“He just knew.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and darts around him to get to the caffeine. “He’s a werewolf too, dumbass. Of course, he knew.”

Scott just grins, and he and Isaac go and join Laura and his father at the kitchen table.

Stiles barely wraps his fingers around a steaming mug before Derek wraps his arms around him from behind, plastering himself to his back and mouthing hotly at his throat.

“You really shouldn’t be wearing my clothes,” Derek murmurs into his ear and Stiles shudders because he knows exactly why he’s saying that. It has a hell of a freaking lot to do why Scott keeps wrinkling his nose in his direction.

Stiles grins slyly and tilts his head further back for better access. “Keep doing that, and I won’t be for much longer.”

Laura starts cackling and even though it’s worth it to hear Derek’s unsteady groan, it’s pretty damn embarrassing to remember there’s an audience listening in on everything they're saying.

Fucking werewolves.

Stiles sets down his coffee on the wooden table, ignoring the urge to sit in Derek’s lap and rub himself all over him. Although Derek’s expression seems to say he knows what he’s thinking. And so does Scott’s. Whatever. He can deal if Stiles can deal with lovesick puppy Scott. It’s only fair.

“Okay,” he says, interrupting the conversations as everyone turns to look at him. “I’ve been thinking last night and there’s something I want to say.”

They wait and listen. Curious. Only Laura’s eyes narrow. 

“Look, I know you’re all pretty set up in this safe house and all, but I’m pretty interested in who the hell is trying to kill me. And whoever that is, is back in Beacon Hills so-“

Derek, always Derek, seems to realise where he’s going with this.

“You want to go back,” he interjects, managing to sound surprised and expectant at the same time.

“People have been trying to kill you, too,” he continues, helpfully not mentioning most of those people happened to be himself. “But I understand if you don’t want-“

“I’m going with you,” he says, sits back into his seat like the discussion has just ended. 

Stiles hesitates briefly, years of paranoia and mistrust still making it hard for him to trust Derek even now. But his expression speaks for itself and Stiles nods.

“So am I,” Isaac and Scott say almost immediately after, grinning at each other in a way that made Stiles want to shield his eyes or tell them to stop with the rainbows and kittens already. Jesus.

“I’m coming too,” Sheriff insists putting down his mug.

“No, Dad,” Stiles groans. “You’re not.”

His father straightens into his I’m-a-Sheriff,-no-really pose, and Stiles knows they’re in deep shit. 

“I’m coming with you. I know you’re trying to protect me, Stiles, but you can’t really do that if you’re all going back to Beacon Hills and you leave me here by myself.”

His father’s expression becomes grave, but Stiles can see the spark behind his eyes that cries bullshit. “Unprotected.” 

He lowers his voice. “Defenceless, you might even say.”

Stiles sighs, and rubs a hand across his face while Derek smirks in the chair beside him, offering no assistance whatsoever. Asshole.

“Laura’s not going,” he says quickly. “She can’t. Not when Finstock is there. She can protect you.”

Laura laughs again. “Like I’m afraid of Finstock. I'm going. He's going. And that’s settled. We’re all going.”

“I hate you,” Stiles mutters, then sighs when his father grins at him triumphantly from across the table.

“Fine. To make this easier I think we should make a list of all of the ALPHA and ABOM-nation agents we’ve seen in Beacon Hills so far, just to see what level of clusterfuck we’re dealing with.”

Isaac helpfully jumps to his feet to go retrieve some paper and a pen and Stiles notes Laura’s huff of annoyance when he passes them to him first. He smirks, then begins to write.

“Okay, so far we’ve got Finstock,” he says, already writing the name.

“Lydia,” Derek growls and Stiles shudders.

“Danny and Jackson,” Scott volunteers.

“Harris,” Laura states calmly and Stiles drops the pen, mouth falling open.

“Adrian Harris?” he demands. “You sent _Adrian Harris, _the guy who engineers all of your explosives to Beacon Hills?”__

She scowls. “I seem to recall you were the one blowing things up, Stiles.”

“But not with the type of chemicals that psycho uses!”

Laura winces, and he knows she at least believes what he’s saying is true, but apparently they're in short supply of evil mad scientists over at ALPHA HQ. Derek makes a frustrated sound and Stiles tries to get his head in the game.

“Right, not important,” he says, before muttering under his breath. “Unless you weren’t planning on dying.”

“Allison,” Isaac mutters and an awkward hush settles over them before Stiles can manage to think of someone else to say.

“Peter,” Derek offers, sparing the tension of the moment. Jesus, nice save.

“Boyd and Erica,” Isaac reminds them.

“They owe me a new TV,” Stiles grumbles, but he marks their names down all the same. He can’t wait to meet them and collect. Or maybe he’ll just trash their houses and return the favour.

“Deaton too,” Laura tells him. “He’s the one who drove me into town after this idiot took off after you.”

She jerks a thumb in Derek’s direction and he shoots her a silencing look that basically ignites every inquisitive bone in Stiles’ body. He’d honestly thought he’d been given permission to go after Stiles, like he’d been given the okay by Finstock to kill if necessary.

“What?” he starts to ask before Derek cuts him off.

“That all?” he asks a little desperately to change the subject.

“I think maybe Chris is going to rendezvous with Allison," Stiles admits. "She was cagey about it when I spoke to her, so I wouldn’t ignore the possibility.”

Laura and Derek stiffen slightly at the name and Stiles has to resist the urge to demand to know right then and there what happened with the Argents. But that's a problem for a later date. Now they've just gotta focus on not dying.

“Well, shit.” Stiles says. “This is looking like a long list of people with the potential to kill all of us without blinking about it. But before I tell you my kick ass plan, I think I should remind you of some things.”

He looks at Laura and she scowls. “Obviously, we’re not from the same fucking company and we should pretty much be shooting each others brains out by now-“

The Sheriff cleared his throat and Stiles continues on without comment.

“So, I think it’s a good idea to establish some trust,” he says glancing at Derek and already knowing his face is heating up. “Um, as all of you can freaking tell we won’t be killing each other anytime soon…”

_Unless we fuck each other to death, _he thinks, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck which is covered in Derek’s hickeys.__

 _ _“And apparently that’s what’s causing the issue here when someone from ABOM-nation clearly intended for that to happen.”__

“So here’s it straight. I’m not going to kill Isaac, because Scott would kill me. And Scott’s not going to kill Derek, because I would kill him. And Derek’s not going to kill Scott, because Isaac would kill him. And Isaac’s not going to kill me, because Derek would kill him. And I’m not going to kill Laura, because Derek would kill me. And nobody’s going to kill my Dad, because I will slaughter you all,” he tells them cheerfully.

Everyone stares. Scott’s mouth is hanging wide open. “I guess that makes us a team, then,” he concludes, pleased at their blank and otherwise confused expressions.

Either way, it was nice to lay it all out on the table. Everybody is too connected to leave any room for a betrayal and it definitely makes him feel more confident about what they’re about to do.

Which is go back to Beacon Hills.

Preferably, guns blazing. 

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s what I was thinking for our game plan…”

And Stiles does what he does best. He talks.

  
  
  
  
  



	11. Comin' Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took me this long guys. I was lazy and I just let time get away from me. I am a terrible human being but I hope you like it anyway :D

# Comin' Home

#    
  


Stiles wakes up the next morning, painfully hard and gasping softly into the taut muscle of Derek’s arm from where he’s rolled on top of him like an octopus during the night. He blinks out of unconsciousness and tilts his hips away, grinding lazily against the mattress with a hushed groan, watching guiltily for the moment that Derek slips into wakefulness.

It doesn’t take him very long. Body shifting so that his torso is pressing against Stiles and he doesn’t get a chance to discuss the many advantages of morning wood before Derek is dragging Stiles onto his chest, slipping a hand between their connecting bodies and bringing them off in his fist together.

It’s glorious. So much that Stiles doesn’t even try to think about it when he flops across Derek’s stomach afterwards and murmurs, “God, so glad I didn’t kill you,” into his sweaty skin.

Derek stiffens all of one second, enough for Stiles to feel like a dumbass for saying anything at all. Way to crush the afterglow. They've just barely stopped trying to kill each other. Feelings seem like a big no-no at the moment. 

He tries to pull away. Escape as far as possible, say the other side of the planet, but Derek is already pulling him back and kissing him across the mouth. Hard. He doesn’t let Stiles up, even after bruising his lips way past the point of kiss swollen, fingers gripping his hips almost too tightly to be soothing. Derek looks starved and wildly frantic, sliding a hand along Stiles’ thigh to adjust the position of their bodies, fitting together uncomplicated and natural. 

“Me too,” he murmurs into Stiles’ neck, mouth warm against his throat as he blazes heat onto his skin.

Only Derek draws away for a second with eyes narrowing as his fingers slide across Stiles’ cheekbones. “But you’re a crazy sonofabitch, who’s going to get us all killed.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes that for the compliment that it is, reeling Derek back in for another kiss with a huff of laughter.

 

  
  
  


  


Strangely enough, Beacon Hills doesn’t look like it’s infested with a legion of dangerous men and women hellbent on destroying him and his werewolf hunk of a fake boyfriend. Go figure. 

But Stiles thinks that’s kind of supposed to be the point. It’s just regular townsfolk, acting out the motions of their pedestrian lives. That is, before they turn around and bury a knife in his back. Too many trust issues for one paranoid, heavily populated barrel.

Derek’s grip tightens on the wheel of the car Stiles hotwired a town over from the safe house- the location which Derek still refuses to divulge- and when they drive through the main street, he has to resist the urge to climb into Derek’s lap and fuck the tension out of his taut shoulders. But all previous efforts to do so have been shot down by Derek’s get-serious-or-die expression of pure terror.

The rest of the group split up at the Beacon Hills sign, all of them taking off into separate cars in different directions as per Stiles’ instructions. He’s been calling the shots since last night’s preparation and the only one giving him attitude about the plan is Laura. But that’s mostly because she doesn’t trust a finger on his body even with an entire hand down Derek’s pants.

It doesn’t bother him that much. He knows she’ll have to warm up, eventually. Finstock’s just got her super paranoid and for good reason. All of those assassination attempts had to really piss her off. Stiles feels for her, he really does. She's just lucky Finstock never gave him the job. Killing his sort of fake boyfriend's sister is definitely not cool.

Laura had argued against Stiles and Derek staying together when they reach Beacon Hills, claiming it would be way too conspicuous and make it easy for them to be spotted. 

Only that’s what Stiles is hoping for.

They’re standing on the corner of the main street into Beacon Hills. The one that’s filled with different stores and bustling people. Stiles can see the roped off section of the grocery store across the road where he blew up Derek’s car and watches the charred section with an emotion akin to fondness.

They’ve been standing there for only five minutes and only twice has someone stopped to chat to Stiles about being back in town, and exactly twice he’s had to dig his fingers into the muscle of Derek’s arm to keep him from clawing their faces off. He’s so tense that Stiles wants to pull him into a nearby alley and get him off, relax him a little. Mutual orgasms seem like a great idea.

Derek inclines his head slightly, eyebrows raised and Stiles knows he’s been caught in his train of thought. No doubt he's giving off some major pheromones. So he just leers and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, but Derek only rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Like its Stiles' fault he's hotter than the sun and induces boners just by scowling alone. 

Then a hand reaches down to cup his ass and squeezes and Derek is a giant fucking hypocrite, that’s what he is. Stiles will make him pay for that. But it’s good enough to distract him for several minutes so that he almost doesn’t notice Allison striding towards them. Derek lets a soft hiss of breath escape, but Stiles ignores his shock and waits for her.

He’s been expecting her for a while.

Ever since the wolf comment in the forest. It had taken one phone call by his dad to the local hospital to prove his theory. No one was admitted with any gunshot wounds but a medical supply room was cleared out of some tools and bandages, consistent with treating that kind of injury a couple days ago. 

She’d been smart, fetching the supplies for her family by staying out of view of any cameras. But after further probing, several eyewitness accounts appeared to match up to a proper description that gave her away. There was also the distinctive necklace she wore around her neck which some of the female nurses had been unable to resist admiring. 

Enough to remember it when questioned a little more thoroughly. And Stiles knows his dad's interrogations go way beyond thorough. From first hand experience.

It was easy enough to figure it all out from there. Allison had been in the woods that day because she’d been hunting Peter with her family. She hadn’t been one of the shooters in the trees because there are no noticeable wounds superficial or otherwise that he can see. Plus, she'd balked at any mention of Chris.

Which had to mean he was around. But setting buildings ablaze like say the hotel Derek was staying at, isn’t really his style. His sister however…

Stiles had read all about her in Derek’s folder. He’d dated her when she'd still worked at ABOM-nation and then she'd gotten into ALPHA HQ and burnt it to the ground. She’d turned around and wiped out nearly his entire family. And it hadn’t even been a contract. She was just batshit crazy. Then she'd quit ABOM-nation so she couldn't be caught, and disappeared.

Kate literally wrote the book on ABOM-nation and ALPHA rivalry. Mainly because she's killed half their team. 

No wonder ALPHA hates ABOM-nation. They're total assholes. Stiles included. 

“Stiles?” her voice is questioning, yanking him into the present, but hesitant as if she’s reluctant to be standing near them.

“I think it’s time we start being honest about what we want,” he admits quietly. “And I want you to take us to your sister.”

Derek freezes behind him, the steady hand on his lower back suddenly sharper. This wasn't the plan he told Derek, he knows. But the reality would have been impossible to properly convince him to go along with. 

And Stiles knows he’s stupid enough to start popping claws in public. Of freaking course. But Derek doesn’t run, doesn’t fight or do anything, but stand at Stiles’ back and he knows that’s a testament to how far they’ve come.

Shows how much Derek trusts him. He has to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

Allison goes pale, and her hand goes automatically to reach for a crossbow that isn’t there. 

“Stiles,” she whispers, warningly now. “Don’t. She just wants…”

“Laura,” Stiles finishes and it takes all of his strength not to turn towards Derek when he growls softly. “So either your helping her by killing us, or help us stop her.”

Allison’s eyes become wider and glassy looking, as if she’s going to bring on the waterworks. Stiles would rather she just shoot them with her crossbow. 

“I didn’t realise what they were planning. They didn’t tell me anything. You have to know…”

“The only thing I know for sure,” he cuts her off. “Is that they didn’t trust you enough to finish the job.”

He’d stopped scanning the crowd for them several minutes ago, because he knows that they’re already here. Waiting to make their move.

The move immediately follows after he finishes speaking. Typical.

Derek lets out a sound, pained and choked off and Stiles turns, expecting Chris and Kate and not the hole that’s just blasted through Derek’s chest. The blood immediately blossoms across his tight shirt and the bottom of Stiles’ world drops out from under him. 

Fuck.

Because that’s not. That’s not- the plan. Had they figured it out? Oh fuck, had they? He darts forward stupidly, to staunch the bleeding, but Derek’s a werewolf, it should just knit itself back together right? If the bullet passed cleanly through. It did, but Derek’s gone pale and his blood has taken on a sickly dark colour of rotten sludge. Stiles’ eyes widen.

“What- what,” he gasps. “The fuck is that?”

Derek groans, and staggers forward into his arms just as Stiles finally sees Kate Argent. She saunters up towards him, followed by-

Not Chris. But. It had to be Chris. He’d been so sure…

“That is the most potent and rarest form of wolfsbane in my possession,” the old man grins. “It induces agonising hallucinations which will have you howling in pain until you die. Or you could make this nice, quick and simple and call for your alpha.”

He notices the bandages on his arm and Kate’s pained expression with each step. The way she's carrying a shotgun, hung loose to her opposite hand as if the angle is awkward. 

Which he knows it is, because that isn't her shooting hand. The old guy doesn't even have a weapon to threaten them with, besides the bullet that passed through Derek's chest and Stiles isn't sure if he finds it insulting, overly cocky or just damn rude. But he knows that he’s looking at the two people he shot in the forest. A little worse for wear. But alive. And they haven’t figured out his plan. Haven’t figured out Derek.

Stiles hides his relief. 

“Gerard,” Allison gasps, shocked. “I thought we were only here for rogues.”

Oh. Stiles should’ve guessed her reason for chasing Peter through the woods. She takes leave every couple of months to go hunting with her family. Hunting. Stiles just thought she meant deer or mountain lion. 

But oh no, rogue werewolves are their forte. He should've seen that sooner. God, she carries a freaking crossbow for fucksake. But Derek isn’t rogue. Stiles hadn’t even seen him fully wolf out yet and it's not for lack of trying.

“Allison, honey, don’t be naïve,” Kate scoffed. “They all go rogue eventually.”

Derek gasps against his throat, breathing strained and steadily worsening. Stiles reacts, adapting his plan now he knows the real ringleader and seizes Gerard by his bandaged arm, yanking him close and placing his Glock right under his chin. 

“Give me the antidote,” he whispers, low and furious, when Derek sags further against him and he staggers under the weight. 

He can feel the heat of his body and knows that his temperature is already rising as the fever sets in. His fingers squeeze Gerard harder. “Now.”

The old man’s grin only widens. “I think we ought to take this discussion somewhere more private. How about the Reserve?”

He tilts his head in the direction of the forest that pretty much spans the entire length of Beacon Hills. People certainly won’t find them there. Stiles jerks his head in agreement, but snarls when Kate inches forward to try and move Derek along. He's pretty sure that she can keep her slimy fingers to herself. 

Or lose them. She backs off, and Stiles doesn’t let anyone get close but Allison and she helps support Derek from one side while he takes the other.

Derek buries his face into the crook of his neck, but it’s subconscious. Stiles thinks he might already be in the throes of a hallucination when he whimpers softly and starts to break out in a sweat. The bleeding's stopped, but it’s still the sickly colour of contamination.

Poison. 

And Stiles is so fucking pissed off that he didn’t factor trigger happy werewolf hunters into the equation. He'd been thinking smaller scale. Assassin rivalry. Not werewolf hunting. He wishes he brought a bigger gun.

They’re close to the edge of the Reserve already, which thank fuck, Stiles actually _did _plan, so no one really notices their little murder party when they disappear into the woods. ____

His dad is down at the station now, holding down the fort and keeping his deputies as far away from this shitstorm as possible. Stiles is trying not to think of all the distress calls about gunshots his dad will have to keep quiet.

“So, I know you’ve been after Laura from the beginning,” Stiles begins conversationally. "Trying to lure her out by going after her guys. Which I now know, is due to the fact you're psychotic werewolf hunters, but I wanna know why you sabotaged my assignment to send me after Derek.”

Allison is still white in the face and shoots him this awful look of realisation which tells him he’s screwed. Even more so when Kate smirks. 

“You were in the same city once,” she tells him. “An assignment in Saint Petersburg. Did you know?”

Stiles shrugs. He’s only ever taken one assignment in Saint Petersburg and it was memorable enough that he’s never allowed to go back. Under pain of death. He frowns. 

“Sure the subway explosion of 09. It’s not that unusual for rival companies to go after the same target. I just got there first.”

He’d never even seen Derek there. It was a pretty shitty assignment. Made worse by his need to impress his new employers to the point of overkill. He can admit now that the explosives had been a bit much. He'd learnt his lesson, but. And lost his favourite knife in the process. But no Derek. He’s positive he would never forget a stupidly handsome face such as that.

Kate only laughs, as if he’s the one being dense here which, hey, rude much? Where the hell is his bigger gun?

“Oh, sweetie, he wasn’t on the same assignment as you,” Kate simpers. “He was taking out another target while we tracked him, keeping heavy surveillance until he dropped everything and didn’t finish the job.”

Stiles frowns. Because of course that’s dumb. What she’s saying is fucking stupid because Stiles read his file, alright? Derek’s never missed a kill. He tells her as much. Kate just rolls her eyes at him and Stiles really wants to punch her in the face.

“Oh, Derek got him eventually. Even after we took the precaution to send him to the Arctic for his own protection, the fool. But that’s not what we found interesting.”

Derek moans louder this time as if her voice is giving him as much of a headache as it’s giving Stiles and his head slumps forward like he’s going to pass out. Before Stiles can blink, Gerard darts forward with the speed of a man half his age and slaps him hard across the face.

“You need to be awake to call your Alpha,” he spits, eyes widening slightly when he notices he's close enough for Stiles' gun to rest against his temple. Which is exactly where he's pointing it. Stiles is itching to pull the trigger on this geriatric asshole.

“I’m beginning to lose patience with you,” he hisses. “Touch him again, and you lose that hand.”

Kate smirks like his comment is funny and he really wishes Scott and Laura would hurry up already. They should've rounded everyone up by now. 

“So, we were in the same city and Derek didn't kill a guy. No big deal. Happens to the best of us. I don’t see how that makes me the ideal lure for bringing the alpha to your hunting party.”

“Derek got distracted because he caught your scent,” Kate drawls getting bored now with his lack of understanding. “And came after you.”

“Like a bitch in heat,” Gerard snarls and whoa- what exactly are they trying to say, here? That Derek caught a whiff of him and liked it so much that it took over his senses completely and he crossed an entire city trying to find it?

Stiles scoffs, because Derek didn't even find him. So argument invalid. But then again, he had just blown up the entire foundation of that subway. Who's to say he didn't destroy any trace of his own scent before he left? 

He frowns and when the both of them just stare at him like he’s monumentally stupid, he starts to think a little more. Werewolves and scents go hand in hand. He knows enough lore to understand its hella important in everything they do. But to abandon everything just to locate one scent _like a bitch in heat _it’s just-__

Oh, wait. He can’t mean? Stiles’ mouth falls open stupidly.

“You're saying that…”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Gerard barks. “You’re wearing the proof.”  


And he jerks his hand in the direction of Stiles’ neck where Derek’s mark sits angry and still flushed red from that morning.

Derek’s _mark._

Oh, shit. He’s totally had Derek’s wolf wrapped around his finger the entire time. And no fucking clue about it. With all Derek’s mistrust and tough guy posturing, he could never have figured it out. How was he to know it was because of a werewolf thing? And not a getting even murder thing? 

All of the comments about smelling of Derek make a whole lot more sense. God, how fucking stupid. For a second, he’s shocked. And then he’s super pissed. Thinks about all of the sex they could have been having a week ago, and growls. Then, feels murderous that Derek needed assassination as an excuse to dog his every step when really-

Derek's like into him. Like super werewolf into him. 

"If I never saw him, how do you know it was me he was after?" Stiles demands, pleased to have found a loophole in this cock and bull story. 

They have to be messing around. Trying to manipulate him into doing something stupid. Fucked, if he falls for that bullshit. 

"Our surveillance arrived in time. They saw you drop an object when you ran. And Derek picked it up like a bloodhound. Took it with him. We could see you were one of us. All we needed to track you down was to search the employee database. Then we knew." 

Holy shit. His favourite knife. Which he'd always liked to turn over and over in his hands whenever he was thinking hard. And had probably been covered in his scent at the time. 

That stupid asshole took his knife and doomed the both of them. Worst werewolf ever. If he wasn't half dead already, Stiles would kick his ass. 

“Now get your little bondmate to call his alpha, or I’ll show him what real agony is.”

Cue sinister music much? Stiles just rolls his eyes. Because holy shit, Derek has been totally flirting with him from the very beginning. It wasn’t his overactive imagination and overly zealous libido. Derek was totally wooing him in a roundabout totally assbackwards, fucked up way.

Which now he can only see as endearing. What kind of goober just can't tell someone they smell good and ask them on a date? Oh no, not Derek. He has to pretend to kill him first.

Stiles thinks it's love. 

“You fucked up,” he says finally when a branch snaps nearby. “Did you think it was an accident you finding us near the Reserve? I wanted you to bring us here. Granted the shooting thing was unexpected, but I knew you wanted Laura.”

Derek screams in anguish and Stiles is unable to support him when he slides to his knees and collapses, writhing on the grass. Yup, those hallucinations art a heartless bitch. His grip tightens on his gun as his jaw clenches. Man, he is itching to put bullets in someone.

“You know what else you didn’t know?” Stiles continues. “That not only is this town crawling with ABOM-nation and ALPHA, but a considerable amount of them are involved in a bet that involves a lot of money. Money they lose if one of us should die by someone else's hand. You’d be surprised what a couple of gambling cutthroats can do when properly motivated.”

They choose that moment to show their faces. Because they're assassins, alright? They live for the overdramatic. 

“I'll kill you all,” Kate shrieks wildly, sensing the victory in his voice for what it is. “I’ll burn you all to the ground!”

Scott and Laura enter the clearing and she twists her head at their arrival, eyes glinting with malice and delight. She cocks her gun excitedly, only awkwardly getting it up past her hip, because of her injury before Stiles shifts his Glock and shoots her in the head. 

He doesn’t even mind for once that he uses such a small gun to do it. Or that it's close range. People have to make sacrifices for the greater good sometimes.

Her head snaps backward with the force of the shot and she goes down immediately. Goodbye, thank you for playing. He distantly hears Laura’s snarl of rage at being deprived a chance at her, but Stiles already has Gerard face down on the ground, frisking him.

“Where’s the antidote?” he roars, hearing more footsteps as the rest of the cavalry arrive. He can hear Jackson complaining to Danny that the fight's already over, Lydia’s already talking cleanup and Isaac is desperately calling for Scott.

Stiles only cares for Derek. Cares enough that he’s going to remove this old man’s fingernails slowly, one by one, until he tells him where the antidote is. Allison hurries over when Gerard remains stubbornly silent like the stupid dumbest fuck that he is. Oh, Stiles will make this man hurt. 

“There isn’t an antidote, not unless you find the species of wolfsbane and burn it out.”

Stiles fondly remembers the spectacular moment Derek went shirtless in order to burn the purple powder from his clothing and nods. 

“He keeps important things in his pill casing,” she explains, already plucking it from his jacket despite Gerard's protests. Probably not winning any granddaughter of the month awards.

She barely opens it before the smell assaults Stiles’ nostrils and the werewolves in the clearing start coughing. Damn, it's strong. 

“Jesus,” he gasps, but still hesitates to release Gerard because he wants to kill him later. He's top of the list. And sure, he loves Derek and all, but he doesn't want to be deprived of shooting some old guy because of true love.

Peter helpfully appears with two angry looking ALPHA's Stiles has never seen before, but they’re both wrinkling their noses at the smell so, werewolves. And Isaac cries out in relief, so Stiles figures he’s looking at his apartment trashers Erica and Boyd.

“We’ll take it from here, Stiles,” Peter promises, smiling with too much teeth. Actually, a lot of teeth. Rows of teeth, because his jaw is fucking elongating. He knows that means. Bad things are coming Gerard’s way, but he has no time to focus on that. He turns away before Peter gets closer.

His fake boyfriend is pretty much dying. 

“Here,” Laura says, snatching the wolfsbane from Allison and using her lighter to purge the poison and create the antidote. It sparks and practically explodes before she moves toward Derek intently and Stiles' brain catches up with what she's doing.

“Hold on you’re not sticking that in the gaping wound that is his chest are you?”

She is. She does. Oh, shit. That is not an approved medical treatment for a gunshot. 

Derek screams again. More pained than the last and Stiles turns back to stomp his boot onto Gerard’s shin, because he's no saint and because of many valid reasons that he can't list right now. Gerard's sound of pain is rewarding, but Stiles is already darting towards Derek, dropping to his knees in order to cradle his head into his lap.

“You're so fucking stupid,” he snaps, but he can't even sound angry anymore just fond. Fucking A. He's gone soft. “When did Laura pass the alpha to you?”

Because he knows about Derek’s red eyes. What they mean. Fuck, they’re lucky he never showed them in front of an enemy.

An enemy other than Stiles.

Derek wheezes out something unintelligible. Laura sighs and they watch as Derek’s wound slowly seals itself back together. 

“In a ritual last month,” she explains. Stiles actually watches Derek slip into unconsciousness and tries not to breathe too loudly in relief. If being unconscious is the worst thing that happens to him today, Stiles will kiss the floor.

He’s still reeling over the Subway explosion of 09 but.

“Did you know about Saint Petersburg?” he asks her quietly, knowing all the werewolves can hear the waver in his voice and fucking hating it. 

His fingers drift gently through Derek’s hair. God, it's soft. How had he forgotten that? He could do this for hours. He will do this for hours. In the future. Definitely.

“I knew about the scent,” she admits cautiously. “Derek said he lost it before he could track it to the original source and he had no choice but to forget about it. I didn't know about the token.”

Stiles frowns. He can’t believe they’d gotten so close. If Derek had made it, maybe they might have started out differently. He laughs. Wildly. It echoes around the clearing. He’s a fucking liar. If Derek had come at him in the subway he would’ve tried to eliminate the new threat. No question.

They were screwed from the start.

Gerard lets out a cry of pure rage at being tricked and slips free of Peter's grip. He lunges towards Derek. Stiles calmly goes for his gun, but his fingers clutch at open air and he’s scrabbling for his hunting knife when he hears his gun go off.

He freezes when Gerard collapses to the ground. Dead. He must have abandoned his gun on the ground for Derek and someone else picked it up. Jesus, that may as well be a love declaration. Abandoning weaponry to check on his fake werewolf lover. For fucksake.

Allison lets out a small sound before she passes Stiles’ Glock back, but Stiles can see another bullet wound in Gerard's still form from an entirely different weapon. He keeps the gun raised and waits for their sniper to show themselves.

Because he’s pretty sure they found his rifle. Even after he took all the time and care to stash it behind the Beacon Hills welcome sign. What is up with people stealing his weapons?

“I’m so sorry, guys,” Allison whispers. “We have a code. I really thought…”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Lydia says already at her side to comfort. “We know you’re with us.”

And how freaking unfair is that? When Allison fucks up its all understanding and soothing gestures, but when Stiles maybe accidentally shoots at a rival ALPHA there’s hell to pay.

He knows a favourite when he sees one. Lydia sucks.

Allison nods, and doesn’t even spare a glance back at her dead family members before she starts out on shaky legs to leave the woods. That’s about when Laura tenses and the rest of the werewolves get ready to fight. Stiles has the horribly unpleasant honour of watching Peters claws shred through the skin of his fingers as they grow.

Super creepy.

Then Chris enters the clearing, Stiles’ rifle slung over his shoulder non-threateningly and hands raised in surrender.

“My baby!” he crows, in delight. 

Nearly dropping Derek's head. Oops. He pats his forehead gently before turns to makes grabby hands at Chris.

There was no choice, but to keep it hidden. It’s too conspicuous during broad daylight. Chris raises an eyebrow, but tosses it to him. Stiles catches it mid air and feels instantly assured with it back in his hands.

Laura gives him this look as if he’s the one with problems and he flips her off.

“Allison wasn’t involved in this,” Chris announces, already reaching his daughter. Hand covering her shoulder protectively. “We’re leaving now. You won’t get any problems from us.”

Someone tuts them like they’re naughty school children and Adrian Harris drops from a nearby branch like that kind of entrance is all hunky dory and joins them. Stiles can see he’s covered head to toe in plastic explosives. Active plastic explosives. He's a walking death machine. Oh fuck. He’d forgotten about that particular douchebag completely.

“You blew up my car,” he snaps, rifle already on his shoulder and lining the asshole up in his sights.

“I have enough chemical explosive to destroy this entire forest,” Harris retorts. “I don’t give a shit about your car.”

Well, rude. Stiles swears, but watches him through the scope just to confirm he isn’t full of shit.

He isn’t. Fuck.

“And I don’t know for sure who of you are werewolves so I’m thinking I’ll get rid of all of you, just to be safe. And then I can take over ABOM-nation and ALPHA myself.”

Stiles scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Jesus, he's fucking stupid. "And how are you going to do that with the explosives stuck to your chest?”

Scott snickers. Adrian’s face takes on a beetroot like quality as he flushes. Clearly, did not think that plan through. God, Stiles actually thinks the work Christmas party last year was worse than this.

"Shut up," he snaps, pulling out a gun from his waistband. And shoots Stiles in the chest.

He manages to move a little so the bullet isn’t fatal, but it clips his shoulder on its way past and- sonofabitch, that fucking _hurts. ___

Him and his big mouth.

Another gunshot blasts through the trees, and Stiles goes down just in time to see Harris’ head explode. Oh, goody. More fucking snipers. Gasping in pain, he manages to tilt his weapon back and look through the scope in the direction it came from, wondering what more they could be dealing with right now.

He can’t see them. He thinks maybe they’re in camouflage. The strength pours out of him and he drops his baby and tries to lean away from Derek so as not to bleed all over his stupid face.

Derek’s nostrils flair and he comes to with an inhuman snarl, claws out and eyes an angry blood red.

"Stiles!" he snarls, and Stiles presses his opposite hand against his bleeding shoulder and winces. 

“You claw me and you’ll be sorry, buddy,” he retorts, watching as Derek lurches drunkenly to his feet, ignoring Laura’s outstretched hand. 

He staggers around the clearing and Stiles scrambles backwards, thinking he’s finally gonna wolf out and eat them all. And not in the sexy way he was hoping. Fuck why isn’t Laura stopping him? His heart pounds and he tries not to announce his presence because there’s still another fucking sniper, Derek has lost his goddamn mind and Stiles is pretty sure he might be dying. 

Okay, fine. Bleeding out, at least. But he’s probably got a few minutes before he bites it. Doesn’t mean he can’t get his rifle and take out the last sniper, though. 

He crawls a little further back before his fingers clasp over the butt of the gun. Grimacing, as he twists around in the direction the shot came from, he keeps tabs on Derek in his peripheral. Laura’s trying to whisper something softly to him, but he finally seems to become balanced, get his shit together and stops to inhale. 

Oh, fuck. Stiles thinks he might know what kind of scent he’s looking for. He fumbles with the gun, trying to bring it up and aim one handed and get the sonofabitch before Derek figures out where he is. 

He doesn’t even get the damn thing off the ground. Derek snatches it from him like he’s an honest to God, child and literally flings it into the woods. 

Fuck. Derek just murdered his baby. The horror. Nobody just throws a fucking assault rifle. Has he gone apeshit or what? Stiles barely splutters a protest before Derek’s pushing him down- with his hand on top of Stiles’ own, which is keeping his bloody life force inside- and he screams. 

Fuck. The pressure kills. It does not feel fresh. He would like to decline that offer, thank you. Derek peels his hand away, because of course he always does the opposite of what Stiles is thinking and straddles his chest to keep him pinned. What’s he gonna do? Use his claws the make the hole bigger or something? 

“It went through clean!” Stiles shrieks at him, trying to struggle. “You fucking asshat! I’m going to kill you so hard as soon as I-“ 

Derek pushes down. Stiles thinks his eyes actually roll so far that they just tumble out of the sockets. His shoulder is burning like a fiery bitch and Stiles wants the Arctic now. He’s willing to risk it, knowing that Derek will come to find him anyway. 

His scream somehow gets smothered into Derek’s skin. And the pain is so blindingly intense that he bites down. Hard. 

Derek actually shudders above him and Stiles hopes he bit his nipple or something for proper revenge, but it seems more like he just got the exposed hole in his t-shirt because all Stiles’ tastes is blood. 

The burning in his shoulder turns into something else and Stiles can feel his torn muscles spasm as Derek pushes down harder like he’s realised whatever he’s doing is working. Stiles thinks he fucking broke him, actually. Thanks for nothing, asshole. He’s sobbing, he thinks, mouth tasting nothing but Derek’s blood and the heat is dying down. 

No wait. Not dying down. Changing. Into something with less ragged edges and sharp teeth. Something softer. Pleasurable. He moans. 

“God, my eyes,” Scott whines and Stiles realises he’s hard. 

He can feel Derek’s butt on his stomach, but he knows exactly where he wants it to be. Oh, he definitely knows. Derek grabs his hair and tugs. Stiles is delirious with sensation now and arches his throat to Derek’s awaiting mouth, hungry for it. Desperate. 

Derek bites gently and Stiles near comes in his pants. 

When he pulls away, Stiles’ realises that he’s no longer hurting and wriggles his shoulder experimentally, surprised that Derek lets him buck his hand off. The hand that somehow saved him. Magically. With werewolf mojo. 

Huh. That’s fucking handy. Right? 

“What?” he says stupidly, staring at the pinkness of his newly healed flesh. 

Derek climbs off and helps him sit upright. 

Everyone’s kind of staring at him and he realises it's because he’s still fucking hard as nails in a group full of werewolves and rotting corpses. 

Romantic. 

“Since when can you do that?” he demands, and Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal that he literally just knitted Stiles wound back together using only his spirit fingers. 

“Since always,” he replies, but he’s kind of not really looking in his direction and Stiles wonders if he was out of it enough to have missed the earlier conversation. 

Stiles thinks not. 

“The sniper,” he gasps, struggling to stand, but he collapses before he gets even a quarter of the way there. 

Whoa, there. Can heal boo boos but not replace bloodloss. Gotcha. He presses fingers to his temple. Dizzy. 

“He’s coming,” the dude called Boyd says, looking off into the distance all serious like. 

Chris bends down to scoop up Stiles’ discarded Glock and he’s glad that at least someone in this group has some fucking sense. But he is pretty curious. Whoever this guy is he did kind of save all their asses and that is a hard thing for Stiles to admit. God, he probably even owes him one now. That’s fucking terrible. 

“No freaking way,” Scott cries. Then bursts into laughter. 

Stiles thinks he might be hallucinating now. How is a potential threat funny, exactly? They all kind of stand there like a stack of dumb bricks for a few tense minutes and Stiles keeps touching his wonderskin in distracted amazement. Jackson looks pissed off which is normal, but everyone else kind of seems confused. 

“It’s Finstock, isn’t it?” Stiles guesses watching with narrowed eyes. And knows that he’ll quit before he owes that asshole anything. 

Scott is still guffawing loudly, but reigns himself in to reply, “Even better.” 

Stiles doesn't understand. Even better? Who else at ABOM-nation would bother to save their sorry asses? 

He steps out from a nearby tree and Stiles almost doesn’t see him straight away if his eyes weren’t already trained to notice that kind of thing. He’s head to toe in camouflage. Even his face is muddy and smeared with dried dirt. Stiles can smell him from where he is. Pretty ripe. 

He looks like the ultimate war hero turned hobo. And he’s grinning from ear to ear. Stiles has definitely lost too much blood. Because it’s not fucking Finstock who pulled the last move that saved all of their asses from certain death and other unpleasant things. 

Fuck no. 

It’s motherfucking _Greenberg. ___

And the guy laughs at the silence that greets him like it’s funny. And not the most ridiculous thing on the goddamn planet. Greenberg. Greenberg _saving_ them. 

Jesus. 

Stiles quits. He is fucking done. 

He’s even more fucking done when Greenberg fist pumps and goes, 

“I won the bet bitches!” 

Stiles is too offended to reply and passes out instead.

  
  
  
  
  



	12. O My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BOOM. The end.

# O My Heart

#    
  


He wakes up in his dad’s smashed out living room very aware and completely horrified that Greenberg did, in fact, win the bet.

As he takes to explaining when Stiles bothers to open his eyes.

“Hey, Stiles,” he gushes as if it’s normal to start conversations with unconscious people this way. 

Dude. Not cool. His ear are already bleeding. 

“You know I won, right? I bet you and Derek would destroy ALPHA and ABOM-nation, hook up and start your own business.”

He does a little victory dance which shakes most of his dirt onto Stiles’ carpet, and if he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d throttle him.

“When did you even get here?” Stiles asks dumbly. “And we didn’t destroy anything.”

Greenberg grins again and wiggles his butt against the nearest couch like he’s grinding against it. Stiles is very disturbed. He thinks he might be being tortured. But he’s not entirely sure.

“Are you kidding?” Greenberg crows. “I’ve been here for two weeks. Even got here before you. Yeah, dude, ALPHA and ABOM-nation are over, baby.”

Huh. Guess that explains the smell. Greenberg goes back to the weird contortion of limbs he deems as dancing and Stiles gapes at him. What the fuck kind of Terminator is Greenberg? He spent all that time out in the woods? Doing what? Surveillance? What did he even eat? Bugs? 

Holy shit, this kid is a nutbar.

“Uh,” and the nice comfy pillow Stiles is lying on suddenly moves, announcing itself as Derek when he speaks. “He’s not wrong. Everybody wants to work together after today. We just need a name.”

What? No killing? What kind of PG-13 shit is this? If Stiles sees a fucking rainbow he will start shooting. No hesitation. But then, again-

“Avengers,” Stiles garbles excitedly. “We’re the Avengers.”

“Yeah!” Greenberg agrees, fist pumping again and Stiles’ enthusiasm is greatly lessened. Why is this dumbass in his living room again? Right, he saved their asses. Stiles can't kill him. Yet. Code of honour kind of insists on him playing nice. Dammit.

Derek has clearly had enough of dancing Greenberg, because he growls. The sound rumbling against Stiles’ back and the kid practically shits himself. 

He's getting good at distinguishing Derek's growls after spending so much time together and that one definitely means 'get the fuck off my lawn'. Stiles grins, pleased that Derek wants them to be left alone. And only feels slightly apprehensive about what they're going to talk about.

Feelings probably. 

Fuck. 

“Get out and annoy someone else,” he snaps, and Greenberg sprints into the kitchen with a squeak of manly terror. Not so Terminator after all. 

Nice. Derek might teach Lydia a few things. But then Stiles shudders at the stray thought and thinks definitely not. 

“You totally used alpha eyes, huh?” he guesses. It's almost as effective as the growl.

Derek shifts minutely, but he figures that’s a hell yes. “We should talk.”

“You mean about us being werewolf destined? I already know.”

Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beat pump a little faster and curls further into him. But he still seems tense. “And you’re okay with that?” 

Oh, God. He thinks he might already be blushing for fucksake. “Well, um, yeah,” Stiles admits. “I mean, you totally went about it the wrong fucking dumb as shit way. But yeah, pretty sweet over here.”

Derek sighs. “Look, I didn’t know you, okay. You’d tried to kill me and then it was that scent. The one I’d been looking for, for years, touching everything, clouding my judgement. Then you used that smoke bomb and I convinced myself I’d imagined it and that I was going to kill you. But then when I got here, I knew it was you. The scent. I could smell your interest, but then listen to your heartbeat when you said you’d kill me and know it was the truth.”

Well. Okay, maybe Stiles was sending some mixed signals. He’s man enough to admit it.

“But I know you care about me,” Derek continues matter of fact. “I don’t trust easy, but you somehow slipped through.”

Stiles wrings his hands together nervously. If they're jumping in, may as well get started. “I do care,” he admits. “It’s like I fired at you, but you’re the one that shot me. Like in the heart and stuff.”

Someone sniggers behind them and Stiles flushes angrily when Jackson walks past the open doorway. 

“Solid game you got, Stiles. That is actually the lamest fucking thing I ever-“

Derek growls, low predatory and oh, so deadly. Jesus, it’s hot. Jackson stiffens and his eyes flash blue, tilting his head in down in apologetic obedience. Nice.

“Hey- _werewolf _douchebag,” Stiles points out in wonderment, then ponders how he didn’t realise Jackson’s ability to be a total douchebag is in fact supernatural. Clearly.__

Jackson stalks from the room all uptight and pissy and Stiles knows Danny’s got his work cut out for him tonight. And speaking of Danny. There’s a few things they need to discuss. 

“I get it,” Derek says and Stiles actually believes him. 

He gets a lot of things about Stiles that no one else does. “You know that box on my bedside table back at the safe house, that I stopped you from snooping in?”

Stiles remembers. Derek had distracted him with a very flexible and very sexy position that nearly made him cross-eyed afterwards. “Your knife is in it.”

Fuck. That plays on his heart strings, it fucking does. But firstly.

“Where’s my dad and everyone else?” he asks. “They okay?”

Derek seems to be smoothing his nose along the back of Stiles’ neck, nuzzling him. He shivers. 

“They’re out the back,” he murmurs softly. “Your dad’s throwing a barbeque in celebration.”

Stiles cries his outrage and struggles to his feet. “It’s a dirty lie,” he hisses. “He just wants the greasy food.”

Derek tugs him back before he gets far, and begins mouthing down his throat. “I know,” he agrees. “But let him have it. He’s been through a lot.”

Stiles wants to argue, he does. He somehow makes out with Derek instead. When they manage to extract themselves from one another, Stiles figures he need to ask one more question.

“Why did you transition to alpha?” he asks curiously. “I know, Laura gave it to you because you wanted it. I just didn’t think you were all that interested in power. I mean, you’re powerful enough.”

Derek ducks his head like he’s embarrassed, and Stiles is really invested in this explanation now. “When you’re an alpha you’re stronger. Everything gets more heightened than a beta: speed, strength-“

“Smell?” he ventures carefully, trying not to smirk. Oh boy, Derek hadn't given up on finding him after all. Except Stiles beat him to it. As always.

Derek barely grunts in the affirmative, before Stiles is jumping into his lap again.

They don’t resurface for several minutes. Then Stiles decides he has to check on his dad. Just to make sure he and the rest of the werewolves haven't eaten every last morsel of food. Near death experiences always make him ravenous. 

Everyone’s outside lounging around and looking amazingly relaxed, considering it's a mixture of ALPHA and ABOM-nation present. It could be the booze floating around, he thinks, but probably also the fact that they teamed up to destroy a couple of highly deranged psychopaths together. Always a major bonding experience. And he definitely isn't planing on complaining. 

Allison and Chris are even present, and no one seems to mind at all. In fact, Allison is sitting incredibly close to Lydia, comfortably close, like maybe she's the very reason Allison didn't care so much about Scott and Isaac dating.

He sees Finstock and his two swollen black eyes- thanks to the broken nose Stiles gave him- and waggles his fingers in his direction, mouthing a quick apology. Finstock shrugs as if he's used to it, but he seems to be having a fairly intense conversation with Laura, so Stiles figures he’s okay. Burying the hatchet and all.

Neither of them are dead yet, so win-win.

His dad passes him a burger, smiling widely at all of the guests he gets to entertain and Stiles knows he’s never going off to fake college again. From now on he’s keeping his dad in the loop.

He wanders over to Scott, feels Derek’s hands brush against his hip before he trudges over to his sister and Stiles heart beat stutters. Most of the werewolves ignore it out of respect. Except for Jackson. He goes to open his mouth, but Stiles beats him to it, eyes narrowing on the evil genius sitting beside him.

“Hey, Danny,” he calls loudly over the mix of conversation. “Which company did you work for again? ALPHA or ABOM-nation?”

Danny winces just as Finstock and Laura both say, “Mine.”

They turn to look at each other in surprise and Stiles blows a kiss at Jackson only slightly guilty at dragging his double agent boyfriend under the bus. He should’ve seen the reason why Danny was so hard to get a hold of for what it was. Why he changed his burner phone, so often. Better late than never. He figured it out eventually.

Traitor. Laura and Finstock get up and walk towards him, not completely menacing, but hardly friendly. Jackson’s already standing protectively in front of him, readying for a fight. Danny sighs and steps around his bodyguard to talk to both his bosses. Better he sort it out now. After all, they’re going to be working with each other from now on. Well, except for Peter who still hasn't surfaced after Gerard and Kate's sniper attack. Stiles thinks he's most likely dead. Hopefully. He catches Derek’s eye, who’s just staring at him in amazement and winks.

God, it wasn’t that hard to put two and two together. Really. The only person who could research as quickly and efficiently as Danny is- 

Well, Danny. 

He goes and sits with Scott, who has Isaac perched in his lap and lets himself get swept away in the good vibes around him for once.

After he’s done eating, he grabs his dad’s beer bottle and pulls out his knife to tap against the glass in order to make an announcement. 

“Listen up, everyone,” he says. “I know we’ve been through a lot of shit, but we came out the ass end and nobody died. Gotta say it’s a pretty big win. I heard you all wanna team up. Start a new corporation. But if we’re going to do it, we have to make sure that everyone’s in. And I mean everyone. We can’t have any past rivalries fucking up what we do. Because we’re goddamn professionals. So if you can’t play nice, speak up or forever hold your peace.”

Nobody does. Derek is smirking at him like he’s already thinking the same thing. 

“Alright. Looks like we’re a team.”

“We just need a name,” Scott interjects. “I vote, Wolf Pack.”

Erica snickers from her spot, wedged comfortably between Boyd’s open legs. His fingers are idly twirling through one of her curls and Stiles has to roll his eyes in order to resist looking in Derek’s direction.

He’s not that fucking sappy. But then he feels the gentle warmth of Derek’s eyes, and oh, fuck- he _is _that goddamn sappy.__

Jesus.

Shooting Jackson a withering look for no other reason than being Jackson- and maybe because of hating on Stiles’ slick romantic moves earlier- he tries to regain the group’s attention.

“Like the direction you’re going in, Scotty,” he agrees. “But outright allusions to werewolfness, probably isn’t the best game play.”

The name sticks in his mind anyway. “We drop the wolf,” he suggests. “We’re PACK.”

“Professional Assholes, Competent Killers,” Lydia offers, eyes glinting and she’s been the one coming up with names from the beginning hasn’t she? It’s only fitting. He does not envy her masterminding one bit. Allison smirks, but that could just be because of their fingers now threaded intimately together.

But PACK. Yeah, he definitely likes it. 

Isaac beams and actually twists around to tug Scott nearly out of their seat in order to thoroughly kiss him. Allison helpfully assists with the final push and they end up sprawled across the grass kissing and laughing. Lydia obligingly dumps her glass full of ice onto their heads.

Stiles has a good feeling about this, he really does. Corded muscle presses against his back as arms wrap around his chest, making him warm all over. Particularly, in his crotch and chest region. Feelings, man. Nearly as astounding as the urge to rub himself all over the hot body enveloping him.

He can almost hear Derek sniffing him out. Him, and the other nearby werewolves. Boyd gives him this look, raises his eyebrows and Stiles just knows that he’s the one who riffled through his porn collection upon ransacking his apartment. He scowls. Tries not to blush, because he’s not goddamned ashamed about his personal tastes. But fails anyway.

Stupid fucking werewolf senses. 

Derek, thankfully doesn’t feel the need to address the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“PACK, huh?” he wonders, and Stiles is thoroughly distracted by envisioning Boyd’s swift demise when he starts to trail kisses down his neck.

Stiles swallows and struggles to control himself and the emotions suddenly rolling through him at Derek’s touch.

Swallows again.

The werewolves seem to scent the air around them.

Jesus, he is a sexual homing beacon.

“PACK,” Stiles agrees firmly, and focuses on not trying to kill them all.

No promises.

 

  
  
  


  


“You’re kidding right?” Stiles gasps into the bare skin of Derek’s exposed chest. “Oh- oh, fuck, _Derek _.”__

He’s been home all of two hours for their first ever Annual PACK meet and barbeque, starting at his dad’s house and Derek’s already snuck through the open window to thoroughly ravish him. No complaints whatsoever. 

Ever since the team up a year ago, PACK has been killing it. Literally. Lydia's so swamped with calls that she's taken to permanently wearing her phone headset and stalking around their new HQ with multiple cups of coffee at once.

So, Stiles figures he's allowed to relax for a while. It’s definitely the preferred alternative to their first encounter in his childhood bed. He feels stretched out and too hot to function, naked and sliding sweat across his sheets and they haven’t even _done _anything yet. That's how twisted up Derek gets him. The loveable asshole.__

But the heavy petting and grinding has definitely gotten little Stiles interested in the proceedings. Derek’s already rolling him across the bed, half wrestling, half working their hips madly together as Stiles struggles to finally wrench the last article- which happen to be Derek’s pants- off. They’re laughing quietly, until Stiles flips Derek onto his stomach, jerks his pants past his hips and down to his ankles before he practically flings them out the window. Not entirely. They do hit the edge of the sill, though.

“I’m gonna need them, Stiles,” Derek whispers, more flustered than offended and Stiles is very glad that Derek prefers commando most of the time. He barely gets his hands onto Derek’s ass before he realises the position that they’re in and nearly loses it.

They haven’t really talked about it, but he’s thought about Derek’s unconsciously pushing himself against Stiles’ cock while they’d shared this bed months and months ago, too many times to count while jerking it, to not be immediately enraptured. And now Derek is underneath him, stretched out and naked and Jesus, he has to ask. Even for Derek to say no and settle the matter once and for all. Stiles has no issue, either way.

He smooths his fingers gently across Derek’s lower back, mouth dry.

“Can I?” he whispers softly, letting his fingers trail lower across the globes of Derek’s well toned ass so the message is clear as day.

Derek pauses minutely and then he’s groaning and shifting his hips against his mattress. 

“Yes,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Do it.”

Stiles nearly busts his nut right there. He stills his roaming fingers and has to shut his eyes against the wonderful vision in front of him in order to calm down. When he’s under control, he reaches towards his nightstand and tugs open the draw to find what he’s looking for.

His hands are shaking with excitement and he’s overly generous with the lube, but figures it’ll benefit him greatly before he’s parting Derek’s ass cheeks and pressing gently against his rim. Stiles hears the moment when Derek’s breath hitches and pushes in on the exhale so that he relaxes into the sensation better. It’s a gentle probe inside, before he zones in on what he’s searching for.

“Oh,” Derek grunts at the first touch to his prostate. 

Then twists his hips harder into the mattress with a punched out moan. Stiles figures that’s a good incentive as any to press another finger inside. He’s gentle, gentler than he’s been with anyone before, despite werewolf healing and takes his time preparing Derek for what he plans to do to him. Oh, the things he plans to do. 

It’s hot. Way hotter than his brain anticipated and more than once he has to relinquish his grip on Derek’s exposed hip to encircle the head of his dick and squeeze to stave of his rapidly approaching orgasm.

Derek’s panting wetly into the crook of his arm, which his head is pillowed against and Stiles practically crushes his cock to prevent ruining the moment. He decides Derek is ready and withdraws, watching with rapt attention as his body closes up again at the loss. Stiles rips open the condom waiting on standby and hisses as it slides on, aching to push himself into the gap between Derek’s legs and just rut mindlessly until he comes.

He doesn’t. Stiles can be a patient fucker when he wants and he slowly opens Derek up again, easing his cock inside.

Derek stiffens, but not in pain Stiles quickly assesses. It’s because his claws are sprouting from his hands and Stiles can see his hair getting longer- as well as his teeth. God, he’s fucking shifting. Accidentally.

He’s never wolfed out unintentionally during sex before. Stiles groans at the scorching heat of his body as it welcomes him in and slides in deeper. Derek gasps and Stiles briefly panics he’s going to howl, before his claws are sinking into the headboard and Stiles is finally bottoming out.

“Are you-?” he gasps, breathlessly. Breathes deep and tries again. “Are you alright?”

He doesn’t think Derek’s freaking out or anything, but his silence is a little alarming. Derek usually makes noise, unless he gets overwhelmed by Stiles’ scent or something else. Usually his fingers. Or his mouth. 

He’s definitely overwhelmed now.

Stiles pauses and waits. Seated inside so beautifully and letting the sensation split him apart. He thinks Derek just tore through his chest with the wonders of his ass. Eventually, Derek shifts and the experimental movement drives Stiles deeper. He hisses.

“Don’t,” Derek finally says, and it’s muffled around the sharpness of his revealed incisors. “Don’t stop.”

Stiles' brain reboots first. Then he pulls back, bracing himself against Derek’s hips in order to push forward in one powerful thrust. He thinks he whimpers, or Derek does, but they’re a sudden flurry of moving limbs and thrumming pleasure that sparks along his skin. He’s moving hard, nearly pushing Derek up the bed, and fuck he’s not going to last. Not like this.

And then Derek’s clenching hard. A sudden flash of searing heat around him and Stiles reaches forward to grasp unevenly at Derek’s neck while other fingers search for his neglected cock. He jerks him with a lube slicked hand and struggles to breathe.

Feverishly, he thinks he just orgasmed, but instead his teeth are scraping along Derek’s throat and suddenly he’s biting deep and actually coming while Derek clenches sporadically around him, cock spilling into his hand.

He collapses against Derek’s sweat soaked back, utterly spent and mind blown. Not even caring that Derek’s nearly crushing his hand now with his dead weight and Stiles is all but a slab of concrete across him. 

When his brain is back online, Stiles licks absently at the spot he bit on Derek’s neck, idly wondering where that flash of _something _had come from. He’d never been much of a biter. Surprised, to taste blood, he gentles his kisses along Derek’s neck, almost apologetically and moves to extract his hand.__

Only Derek’s cock no longer feels the same as it did before. It’s almost bigger. Filled with more blood around the base like he’s having a weird reaction to something. Confused, he tries to shift his hips in order to pull his hand free and Derek nearly whimpers.

Then it clicks.

“I thought you said there was no freaky werewolf cocks?!” he quietly demands. 

Highly aware of his dad rustling up the welcoming meal for the rest of PACK downstairs. He thinks Stiles is napping up in his room, for Christsakes. Heart pumping frantically, he tries to pull out, but Derek’s already got a restraining- noticeably wolfy- hand holding him still.

“I just-“ he fumbles for words. “Just stay a little while.”

Stiles relents and ignores his soft cock still sheathed inside Derek in favour of questioning him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Derek grunts and shifts a little to join Stiles’ fingers holding his dick. Feeling uncertainly at the new change. “I think, I popped a knot.”

Stiles wants to explode into movement, but keeps still, eyes lingering on his bite mark on Derek’s neck that isn’t actually fading like a usual injury would’ve. Huh.

“And is this a common occurrence?” Stiles ventures cautiously. 

Suspicious. But something also flickers in his gut. Curiosity. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t already come his brains out.

“I’ve never- before,” Derek explains tightly. “I didn’t even know that I could.”

Stiles processes all of that in about two seconds before he gets even more curious. His fingers probe the swollen head of Derek’s dick, feeling out the strange sensation of the bulging flesh, but liking the weight of it in his hand. Ready to tie them together. 

He knows how it works. He's got the internet. It’s slippery with Derek’s release and Stiles isn’t sure exactly but he thinks Derek might still be coming.

Oh, god. That’s- that’s… 

“Put it in me,” he demands. 

Regardless of the fact that he probably couldn’t work his way up to a second round so quickly. Fuck it. He’s damn well going to try. A tension that had made its home in between Derek’s shoulders abruptly shudders out of him and he relaxes into the mattress as he laughs.

“Wow, romance me, Stiles,” he says, then groans when Stiles grips him experimentally again. 

Tightening in wonder when he can’t even fully close his hand around it. 

“It’s too late. I think it’s reached the peak. I can’t get it inside you without hurting you now.”

Stiles’ asshole clenches down violently in anticipation and he thrusts accidentally, despite being nearly completely flaccid. He thinks he might be able to work up to half chub with a bit more of this talk, though.

“What about my mouth?” he suggests, really wanting to get a better look at Derek’s freaky werewolf dick. 

When he goes to slip out of him this time Derek permits it with a soft groan. He barely tilts Derek’s hip to encourage him to turn over so he can get closer, get his mouth around this part of Derek that he’s never seen before. But he thinks he might be too late when he sees Derek’s nearly dripping in his own spunk, and pumping it out less frequently now.

He curses his disappointment when he see the knot is shrinking back and pushes forward to wrap his mouth around as much of it as he can. It’s still pretty fucking big, but it’s bearable and Stiles gently works his jaw around it, feeling the short spurts slide down his throat as his dick start to rouse again.

Derek’s eyes are completely shut and he looks blissed out, working his pelvis forward in barely there thrusts that nearly have Stiles’ eyes rolling back into his head. His fingers fumble around his dick and he comes, just as Derek’s knot finally seems to deflate.

He collapses onto Derek, pressing his face into his stomach and sighing contently. 

“Figure out how to do that and we’re totally doing it again. But you fuck me next time.”

His asshole nearly flutters at the thought. Stiles manages to tilt his head up to look at Derek, warmed by the flustered, embarrassed expression he’s showing.

“Uh,” he says, sounding strangled. “Keep up with the neck biting and we shouldn’t have any problems.”

Stiles grins cheekily and climbs up Derek’s body to kiss him thoroughly. They lie there for a few minutes before Derek jerks up and hurriedly grabs a nearby shirt to wipe the drying come off of himself. Stiles tries not to smirk at the lost cause. He’s too comfortable to bother with that shit yet.

“Your dad’s coming upstairs,” Derek hisses in warning. “With a woman!”

Startled, Stiles jumps to his feet and joins in the violent flurry of movement to get themselves presentable. He tosses the duvet over his dirty sheets and vows to clean up later, already tugging his jeans up over his hips and scrambling for a nearby shirt. What woman is this?

It’s totally a lost cause. The room reeks of sex and Stiles’ childhood bed has clearly been defiled. Derek’s already dressed beside him, still looking kind of dazed and out of it- probably from such a prolonged orgasm- but Stiles is grinning ear to ear when his dad finally enters.

“Hey, father mine,” he greets, already assessing the curly haired woman behind him for signs of threat. 

She looks vaguely familiar.

“Stiles, Derek,” the Sheriff nods and for once sound mildly disapproving. He wants to laugh when he wrinkles his nose and glances at the bed, but Stiles is too satisfied watching his father squirm for once.

“Scott’s mother, Melissa arrived early. So I thought I’d make introductions.”

Stiles can’t help, but notice the spark in his father’s eyes when he steps aside to introduce her. He can’t remember how many years it’s been since he’s seen it and for a moment he’s wholly reduced to all consuming happiness. 

Especially, at the way Melissa seems to be looking right back. They probably hit it off in the kitchen while he and Derek were fucking around. This is the first PACK meet and coincidentally the first get together that Scott has brought her to, finally deciding that it's safe enough.

Stiles is insanely glad for that. 

Jesus. Finally. He might have someone to tease his father about.

Melissa takes one look at Stiles, the rumpled bedsheets and the gorgeous hunk of a man loitering quietly in the corner and raises an eyebrow.

“Just as much of a troublemaker as described,” she observes, but Stiles listens to the friendly cadence in it. 

The tender mocking. 

He grins again. He can’t wait to hear Scott’s opinion on this new situation when he finally arrives. He’s looking forward to the rest of PACK’s opinion, actually. He thinks they’re all quite prepared for revenge on his father.

Stiles can’t wait. The Sheriff sees his expression and pales.

He doesn’t shake her hand for cleanliness reasons- half of them being said hand was practically up Derek’s ass, several minutes ago- but smiles anyway.

“Well, clearly you know who I am,” Stiles acknowledges, “But Dad, Melissa, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Derek Hale.”

His father’s eyes widen as Derek shuffles forward to take Stiles' outstretched hand and manages a smile. Progress. His heart swells, knowing the fun that awaits them especially with the arrival of PACK and his freshly ordered rifle. It’s meant to arrive today. 

Stiles is itching to get his fingers on it, especially once everyone’s eaten and their ruthless streaks come out for some friendly competition. Or not so friendly depending on how hard he wants to crush Jackson's ego today.

Stiles has been looking forward to this the most, he thinks. If at least to prove he can still throwdown with werewolves. With clothes on.

He feels Derek’s reassuring squeeze and can’t help but smile at his father’s confused expression. After everything the Sheriff, still hadn’t been quite sure of where Stiles and Derek’s relationship had stood.

Now he definitely knows.

“For realsies,” Stiles adds, and laughs when Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn't release his hand.

Not even when the Sheriff's eyes narrow at something on the bed behind them and he demands loudly, "Is that lube?"

  
  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with me. We got there in the end ;D
> 
> -Luna


End file.
